Omega Prologue: Revolution Rising
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: Set before the onset of the "Third" Great World War, following a young Czechoslovakian who is conscripted into the Red Army, and soon finds himself caught up in a web of intrigue and a plot of vengeance brewing behind the Iron Curtain. Rated T for brief violence and other things. Slight AU
1. Chapter 1

**(AN: Welcome all you who have waited and you newcomers. I hadn't planned on getting back into publishing anything, but, like with _The Dragonborn and the Lioness_ , my desire to explore another game that I love was denied due to mods and my accursed OS. So instead, I will use my imagination and go into said world: welcome to _wickedmetalviking1990_ 's re-telling of the _Red Alert_ series.)**

 **(A few things before we begin: this is just a prologue for the upcoming BIG series, which will focus on characters from all three [yes, you read that right, THREE] sides. There will be some scattered words in Russian [like I did with my _Soul Calibur_ fics, having scattered words from the character's native languages], so I do apologize in advance for butchering your language [and for lack of those special letters with accent marks]. This story is based on the _Red Alert 2_ game, but with two important caveats. 1] Though I'm not a fan of _Red Alert 3_ , as those events technically do originate from the main saga [the beginning of the intro of _RA3_ is post- _Yuri's Revenge_ Allied victory], there may be some characters from _Red Alert 3_ appearing in this story: just don't expect Rick Flair or little anime school-girl Yuriko. 2] This story is slightly AU since I will be including elements of the _Mental Omega_ mod into this story, which I also like [as is the reason I can't play _Red Alert 2_ anymore]. So final words before we begin the prologue: I don't own anything mentioned in this story from _Red Alert 2, Yuri's Revenge, Red Alert 3_ [those belong to _EA_ ], nor am I part of the _Mental Omega_ team or affiliated with them in any way. Most references to real-life characters [ie. Josef Stalin and Albert Einstein] are based on their characterizations from _Red Alert 1_. Now sit back and relax, comrades, because we're going back to the USSR!)**

* * *

The insides of a cattle car were all that Jozef saw when his eyes opened. The air was hot, stuffy and filled with foul odors: a sickening, stifling miasma of sweat, body odor, cheap cologne, vodka, tobacco and piss. With the exception of faint, pale light shining through the cracks of the car's walls, there was no light. Somewhere in the darkness, Jozef heard someone groan: it might have been him, or one of the others in there with him. Someone else coughed; that certainly was not him. It was a point of personal pride for Jozef Tankian that, though he was rather poor, he was generally in good health.

For how long he was on this train, going where he did not know, Jozef could not comprehend. At some point along the dark, jostling train-ride he had fallen asleep and lost track of time. The last clear memory was of returning to the _odpadkydom_ : a junkhouse typical in the urban ruins of eastern Czechoslovakia that housed anywhere between 20 and 50 people. Curfew came earlier today and he had to race back to the _odpadkydom_ before he was caught: not that Jozef ever tried to get himself into trouble, though trouble certainly found him. After going to sleep with nothing but his growling stomach, he was rudely awoken by armed men in brown suits. They did not ask for his name or state that he was under arrest: they told him to come with them and ask no questions. From the _odpadkydom_ he was shoved into the back of a covered truck and driven across town to the railway, where he was shoved out of the truck and into the cattle car, which was then sealed and locked and the train took off without so much as a single word as to where they were going or why.

Jozef was so weary from being rudely awoken and from hunger that he had almost immediately fallen asleep where the men in brown had pushed him inside the train-car. Now that he was awake, his mind began to wonder why he had been abducted. His first thought was that they were government agents; state police and such. But he hadn't broken curfew, and there had been no incidents that day. He certainly wasn't a traitor, though his ties to the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia were nominal at best, as with most people living in Michalovce.

Most people living in his area didn't bother with history: they were either uneducated or had something to hide, and Jozef was a little bit of both. Aside from what accounted to a fourth grade education and fluency in Czech, Slovak and Russian, anything else he knew he gained on the streets of the industrial town of Michalovce. As for something to hide, what Jozef did his best to conceal was so great that, if it got out, it would make him very unpopular or lead to his death.

In the 1950s, another man named Josef led the Soviet Union to begin the Great War. The Georgian premier, who called himself the Man of Steel, brought the nations of Europe to their knees in his attempt to expand the borders of Russia from the Pacific to the Atlantic and enforce the dictatorship of the proletariat in his wake. But his vision ended prematurely as the nations of Europe allied together to end the Soviet onslaught, pushing the Russian forces out of Europe and taking Moscow. What happened next changed the fates of everyone in the Eastern bloc, including that of Jozef Tankian.

While in Russia, Josef Stalin was still respected as a hero of the Soviet people and an effective promulgator of communism - thanks in no small part to his successor as premier of the Soviet Union - many in the Eastern bloc saw him as only a bringer of war and destruction. Towns and cities were devastated by the iron wall of Soviet tanks moving west, then ransacked and looted by the Soviet forces as they were being pushed back eastward. Many farming and industrial towns, such as Michalovce, were already impoverished under Stalin's regime to provide food, weapons, tanks and men for the Soviet war machine. Despite the turmoil that happened afterwards, with the Eastern bloc being shepherded back into the fold of the World Socialist Alliance, Michalovce was still dangerous for those who had ties to the old Stalinist regime, no matter how distant.

Jozef's father had served in the Red Army as a commanding officer.

As a young man, only the elders knew the truth and they never let him forget. As they died off, fewer people knew and the only ones who cared were those disillusioned ones who liked picking a fight with someone but were too scared to go against the KGB: a young boy could be bullied, or a young man robbed and beaten, if it suited the pleasure of those who felt like hurting the Union that hurt them but were afraid of the KGB's guns. Because of this, Jozef kept to himself for all of his years and had a reputation in the town as a loner.

Now here he was, in a crowded train car, filled with so many people: more than a few of them from Michalovce. He tried to remain calm and force himself back to sleep: bad things happened when he lost his temper or became agitated. Usually these incidents were exacerbated by those disillusioned towns-people who came to him looking for a fight, which was why he preferred solitude. Now there would be no other option but to be around other people; for how, he did not know. Therefore he closed his eyes, emptied his mind and tried to focus on nothing else but the gentle jostling of the train-car along the tracks.

* * *

How long he remained in this state, between waking and sleeping, none could guess. But it was over far too soon for his liking. The jostling slowly came to a halt and he could hear the others around him stirring: the train had come to a halt. Suddenly the large door of the train-car was swung open, a blast of bitter cold wind filled the car and Jozef could hear voices shouting in Russian. In the light, he could see many figures standing before him and the open door, but could not make out what lay beyond. One by one they began to move forward, slowly and one at a time. There was a loud gun-shot, whose report reverberated throughout the car, magnified to the deafening roar of a cannon. Now those in front began to move quicker, and Jozef realized that he was moving with them towards the open door. There was no way to move any quicker, for the closer he and the others in the car came to the door, the tighter packed together they became until he was bumping shoulders with people he had never seen before.

 _Just stay calm,_ Jozef told himself. _No matter what happens, it will only be worse if you lose control._

Suddenly there was another gun-shot, and a cry of pain. Jozef strained to see through the press what it could be, but he was too far away to see anything. Now the press continued moving and Jozef was being pushed towards the door. His eyes were now adjusted to the light and he could see opening before him a bleak, snow-clad compound into which the train had arrived. There were concrete walls lined with barbed wire surrounding the compound, and tall towers where he could see men armed with guns standing watch. Before him he saw several of the men in brown coats who had abducted him from the _odpadkydom_ ushering him and the others out of the cattle-car at gun-point. Off to the right he saw the body of a man being dragged away by several face-less men in heavy brown-jackets: behind the body was a trail of blood staining the mud and snow. Ahead he looked and saw the others being ushered towards a building with a tall statue upon it of a soldier bearing a rifle saluting proudly. Over a mega-phone he could hear someone shouting in Russian:

"Comrades, brothers, the people are truly grateful that you have volunteered to join in our glorious crusade against the capitalist dogs of the west. Rejoice, peoples of the world, for the revolution is at hand. All of you now are marching forward to a brave new world, one where all men will be proletariats; equals in the great socialist utopia that Comrade Romanov and the Union have planned. Together with our brothers in the Latin Confederation and the People's Republic of China, the hopes and dreams of our working class brothers and sisters across the world will be realized!"

Jozef ignored the words and moved forward along with the rest of the people from the train. As he was a loner, he often paid more attention to his surroundings than most others, what with little else to distract him on the long, lonely days. The buildings in the compound, he noticed, all bore the same flag: red with the hammer and sickle in gold on the upper left-hand corner. On every wall he could see posters set up with pictures of men holding up rifles and machine-guns with various titles: _Rise Up for the People! Workers Demand Justice: Vengeance for Moscow! The Motherland Fights With You!_ He had seen posters like these in Michalovce, especially in the past ten years, since he was fifteen or so. Though he did not know for sure, he had a very good guess as to where the train had taken him.

Moscow, the heart of the Union of Soviet Socialists Republic in Russia.

* * *

 **(AN: So here we get a little bit of background on one of the main characters in the story to come. He's a Czech whose father was the Soviet commander in _Red Alert 1_ [and, in my unfinished story _Immortal: Legends of the Tiberium War_ , Jozef's son Pyotr - now living in Croatia - joins the Brotherhood of Nod]. For future references, I will give a bit of update on the "timeline" of these events so that there is as little confusion as possible.)**

 **(For the purpose of this story, "the Great War" refers to the events of _Red Alert 1_ , which will also be referred to as "the War in Europe". Some have called _RA1_ "the Second Great War", which doesn't make much sense to me since, accordingly, the War between the Empire of the Rising Sun [-cough- Japan!], China and the US [which in our universe was the War in the East part of WW2] took place between the 30s and 1945, with "the Great War" breaking out between the European Allies and Stalin's Soviet Union in the 50s: two separate events taking place at different times and at opposite ends of the earth, neither of which [in my opinion] warrant being called a "world war" since they weren't take placing more or less at the same time.)**


	2. Chapter 2

**(AN: Not much to say about this chapter, except that we learn a little bit about our protagonist in the Soviet army and his back-story.)**

* * *

The closer Jozef and the others came to the building with the statue, he realized that something was amiss before him. He saw a man in a brown coat with a pistol in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, and surrounding him were others in brown coats holding machine-guns. The man was giving orders to the armed men, who were directing the people who had been taken off the train. Jozef noticed that they were not going all in one direction, towards the building with the statue; at orders from the man with the pistol, the armed men would take one from out of the crowd and drag them away behind a building off to the right. Another gun-shot set Jozef's nerves on fire, filling his body with adrenaline: what was happening to those being taken out of the line? Were they being taken behind that building to be shot?

One way or another, he would find out what fate awaited those selected. Step by step he was approaching the group of armed men. As he watched them, he noticed that they were only selecting a few people. At some point they were passing over dozens of men without even giving them so much as a second glance. Perhaps they would pass him over as well? Assuaging his rising worry with that thought, he averted his glance, lest the man with the pistol see him and select him out of spite, and continued on with the rest of the press of men.

Suddenly strong hands seized Jozef by the arms and he saw himself being dragged out of the line. Fear suddenly overcame him as he feared that he too would be shot, for why he couldn't guess, and he panicked.

"No, please!" he cried out. "Stop! Let me go!"

To his surprise, the men carrying him came to a stop. One of them released his hand from off Jozef's arm. There was a loud gun-shot and the man with the pistol approached the armed man who had released Jozef, shouting angrily and brandishing his pistol in front of the man's gas mask. Jozef realized that, aside from the man with the pistol, who must be an officer, none of the faces of the armed men could be seen: they all wore gas-masks.

The officer continued shouting at the one man, then whipped him across the face with his pistol and ordered him to take off his helmet and mask. With his own hands trembling, the armed man placed down his machine-gun and removed his helmet and mask. All the while he was pleading with the officer that he hadn't betrayed his orders, that someone else told him to let him go. A feeling of detestation filled Jozef and he hoped the officer would put a bullet in the man's brain. One loud shot rang and the man fell to the ground, bleeding from the hole in his head.

"What are you waiting for?" the officer shouted to the other soldier. "Take him inside or you'll join him in the dirt!"

" _Davay!_ " shouted the second armed man, dragging Jozef away from the scene. The last thing he saw before being dragged behind the corner of the building, two other masked soldiers were dragging away the dead man's body.

* * *

Jozef was relieved when he saw that he was not being lined up to be shot. Instead he saw that he was being taken towards a rather grand-looking red-brick building with many spires, each topped with a golden dome shaped like an onion, and one in the center, larger than the others. Into the doors he was ushered, then into a small room with the others who had been selected: the soldier pushed Jozef inside, then shut the door behind him and locked it. Aside from the others, the room was bare of any furniture or tables. There was a single lamp hanging from a wire from the ceiling, and on the wall were two decorations: one was a painting of Josef Stalin, the other a large red flag with the hammer and sickle in gold upon it.

In the minutes that followed, Jozef stood by himself in a corner of the room and made no eye contact with anyone else. He had almost lost control that moment in the yard, with ugly results. Deep down inside he harbored no ill-will towards that man who had died; his only bitterness was that he was too honest. He told his superior exactly what had happened, and that was worse than a thousand lies and blows that either of them could have suffered. But that was the way things were with Jozef Tankian: he had a strange effect on people in times of duress. Some people mocked him for it, but he could not understand it himself and it clearly wasn't intentional. During such moments of fear, anger or frustration, any command he said would be obeyed by whoever he had been speaking to at the moment.

The strangest of such moments had been an incident of bullying when he was nine years old. Some older kids from his neighborhood had found out that his father had been in the Red Army and decided to take out their frustration on his orphaned son. At one point he was on the ground, being kicked and spat upon by one particularly violent young child who wanted more than to make Jozef bleed. Beaten, bloodied, filled with anger and fearing for his life, young Jozef hadn't even spoken the words 'I wish you'd just die' when suddenly the older boy fell to the street, coughing up blood. The other children fled in fear, spouting off whatever other insults and taunts their cowardly hearts could muster at the strange little freak that had broken their leader, and certainly told their parents about it. Jozef quickly became unpopular and shunned by the local children, and as he grew older, he found that this was to his liking. As for the bully, he would have survived whatever had happened to him; but the local doctor was busy with appointments and the nearest opening wasn't until seven months later, and after six months the boy died.

And now, sixteen years later, Jozef had caused another death when, in a moment of panic, he spoke the exact thoughts of his mind. His only hope now was that no one had noticed this, and that the officer had believed his soldier had suddenly turned traitor and deliberately disobeyed his orders. The firing squad still lurked at the back of Jozef's mind.

By the time Jozef had calmed himself down from the incident in the yard, he noticed that the others were in a small group, quietly muttering to themselves. His care for what was being spoken was only passive and he made no attempt to listen in or to ask them what they were talking about: his best guess was that they, like him, were wondering why they were here and why they had been selected out from among the others. That they were doing so in a closed group meant that they didn't want to be heard: either by him, or whatever listening devices might be in the room. Just because they were poorly educated, none of them, not even Jozef, were naive enough to believe that no one was listening to them. More than once in Jozef's time at Michalovce had someone disappeared over having said something that was not socially acceptable according to the Party's ever-expanding list of thought-crimes.

None of them had to wait much longer to find out the reason for being here. The door was soon opened and the officer with the pistol appeared in the room. His pistol was in its holster and behind him stood two more men in brown coats and carrying machine-guns. The officer ordered everyone to stand before him in a straight line at attention, and the presence of the guns ensured that he was obeyed. When all of the men, Jozef included, were standing in a straight line in front of him, he addressed them.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, in a voice that was so courteous it didn't sound like the same one who had shot one of his own soldiers at point blank range over insubordination. "I am Commissar Dragovich. I have been placed in charge of the Officer's Training Program for the glorious Red Army. You have been selected, according to your particular talents and abilities, to be trained as officers in the Red Army. For the next three months, this place will be your home and, during that time, your training will undergo three important stages. First, you will be properly...re-educated, in order that you promote the ideals of the people in all of your affairs. Second, you will be given combat and tactical training according to where you are placed in the entrance examinations. Third, having completed your training, you will be presented with your commission in the Red Army from the Premier himself."

All of them were stunned silent at this revelation. Jozef, meanwhile, was more than a little concerned. He had no skills as far as he knew: surely they knew that. He didn't ask himself so much as to why he was selected, only why he was still here. Once they realized that he had nothing to offer them, he feared that, worse case scenario, he'd be on the short path to the firing squad.

"Today you will be...oriented into the base regime," the Commissar continued. "You will be told where you may go, when you may eat, and what you may do in what little spare time you have. Six days you will attend your studies, and on the seventh you will be tested over what you learn throughout the week. Any infraction will be dealt with swiftly and decisively. Dismissed."

* * *

Jozef was surprised at the content that they were being taught. The very first lessons were biology studies about evolution, which then progressed into the cultural and social spheres. Once the bedrock was placed, then came Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels and their ideas on how the bourgeoisie somehow managed to usurp power from the people. Most of this was over Jozef's head: he had no strong ties to the Czechoslovakian Communist Party, no stronger than anyone else in his town. As that was the only choice they had, everyone belonged to the party. Currently, he was baffled that, as a future officer, he was being taught history and sociology rather than anything martial.

As for socialism itself, Jozef didn't care one way or another. The public education that he was required to attend while at Michalovce only spoke of the benefits of what the Eastern bloc had done for their countries; even though few of the nations had ever fully recovered from Stalin's scorched earth policy during the Great War, almost twenty years ago. Now, it seemed, he was being forced to embrace socialism in truth. With a wearied sigh he attended the classes and tried to conduct himself like a good little comrade: if he let on that his loyalty to the party was so vapid, it might mean a short walk to the firing squad.

Five weeks had passed in the camp, during which Jozef and his fellow officers in training completed their crash course on The Communist Manifesto and were now beginning basic martial skills. Marksmanship training was carried out with Makarov pistols, which would be issued for use while on duty upon completion of their training. Later on they would be allowed to practice with the _papasha_ , or PPSh-41, the standard issue sub-machine gun for soldiers conscripted into the Red Army. Further clearance would come after their placement examinations.

One day, while the officers were on the firing range, sending 9x18 millimeter rounds into the targets down-range, Commissar Dragovich appeared and a whistle was blown, bringing the officers in training to attention. He appeared even more serious than usual and there was little friendliness in his voice.

"Comrades," he spoke. "It seems that the Premier has become aware of our progress. He is sending his chief advisor, Comrade Yuri, to visit our compound and oversee the training of our new officers. Comrade Yuri will arrive tomorrow: I expect you all to conduct yourselves with dignity and to proudly display the efficient and superior training we have taught you, or you will be shot. _Ty eto ponyal_?"

" _Da_ , Comrade Commissar!" they all replied.

"As you were," said Dragovich. He departed and left the officers to continue their training. Some of them, however, began muttering to themselves.

Any time they were permitted to watch the television in their bunk-house, what was playing was always 'educational' videos from the Party or news reports from the Kremlin. They often saw Premier Romanov, who frequently made televised appearances in Red Square to address the World Socialist Alliance; he seemed like an old bear, large and powerfully built, perhaps in his younger years, with a deep voice. He was usually surrounded by several other people in the videos, though none of them stood out in particular. There was another large man, a couple years younger than the Premier, who had so much hair that he looked more bear-like than Romanov. There were also several different aides and one or two bald men, or maybe they were the same person: they were always in the background and could have been overlooked at a glance. There was also a fit, suave looking man with a mustache, dressed in a decorated uniform and followed by a short, fat man with short graying hair and a beard. Jozef had no idea which one of those was Comrade Yuri, and therefore had no idea who would be watching them tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning, as soon as roll was called and the officers stood at attention, one of the other trainees addressed Commissar Dragovich.

"Comrade Commissar, a word, if I may ask?"

" _Da_? You need something, comrade?" Dragovich replied, turning to the trainee.

"I was only wondering," the trainee continued. "If you knew what Comrade Yuri looked like, so that you could tell us and that we might know when he was visiting."

" _Da_ , I understand, comrade," Dragovich grinned. "You want to know what Comrade Yuri looks like, _vernyy_? You want to put your best foot forward for Comrade Yuri when he arrives, da?"

"It would look well on your training of us, Comrade Commissar," the trainee replied, giving a hopeful smile in return. Suddenly Commissar Dragovich took out his Makarov and pistol-whipped the trainee across the face.

"No ration card for three days!" Dragovich shouted to the trainee, his mood suddenly changing. He then turned to the others, including Jozef. "And let that stand for the rest of you, comrades: self-seeking opportunism will not be tolerated. When Comrade Yuri observes your progress, you will all perform equally well. Is that understood?"

" _Da_ , Comrade Commissar!" all shouted.

"Now, you will go about your training exercises as every other day," Commissar Dragovich stated. " _Seychas_!"

The trainees dispersed and went to the firing squad. Today they would be training with the SKS: an outdated semi-automatic rifle, but they had been told that proficiency in this would grant them clearance to use the coveted Kalashnikov-47. Therefore it was that they all were doing their best to remember what little they had been able to read up on the loading and reloading process of the SKS in the training manuals they were given.

Jozef had never held a gun until now, but he certainly seemed to have a knack for them. There was something satisfying about the kick-back and landing a hit near, or even in, the bull's eye of the target. Target practice was one of his favorite sessions of their training. Today, however, things were different. After firing off a few rounds, he thought he heard a voice whisper into his ear.

 _Sergei shouldn't have been punished that way,_ the voice whispered. _Don't you think so?_

At first, Jozef ignored the voice, pushed the new clip into his rifle and took aim. Five loud shots went off, but then the voice spoke again.

 _They call you 'comrade' as though it means something,_ whispered the voice. _But if that were so, why do they keep you locked up inside this compound, surrounded by armed men?_

"Stop talking!" Jozef hissed through clenched teeth. "You'll get us in trouble!"

"Who are you talking to, _chuzhak_?" one of the other officer trainees asked.

"No one," Jozef lied, shaking his head.

 _You're not from around here, are you?_ the voice whispered, as Jozef went to return the SKS to the _starshina_. _They call you chuzhak instead of comrade, as if your nationality means more than brotherhood. It is but a sham, is it not...comrade?_

" _Nyet_ ," Jozef muttered under his breath.

Throughout the day's training, Jozef could hear the voice whispering in his ear almost all the time. At first he thought it was one of the other trainees, but that was quickly put to rest. None of them could whisper loud enough to carry over gunfire, or the regular blaring of the Soviet National Anthem over the loud-speakers. If he became thus agitated by reason of the voice's whispering, he found that it would vanish for a while, only to return once he had calmed down. This made his day harder, since he couldn't be agitated every minute of the day, especially during training.

While he was on his way back to the bunk-house inside the Battle Lab - the name for the red-brick building with the onion domes upon the spires - with these thoughts in his head, Jozef suddenly blacked out.

* * *

 **(AN: I wonder if I should change the rating. Some things that happen in this little prologue might be too extreme for a T-rating: as you know with me, it's more often because of depictions of violence and extreme situations than just plain old sexual intercourse that my stories go from T to M [although they do have that, too].)**

 **(I know that _Red Alert 2_ is hardly what anyone would consider realistic [some would call it campy, even! I didn't realize that until _Yuri's Revenge_ when i heard the silly things the Brute was saying]. But, for some reference, i will have realistic weapons [the Makarov, PPSh-41 and the AK-47: further on also the Tokarev], and even some of the vehicles will have real-life designations, with the name they have in the game [like the "Rhino Tank"] being the nickname for the vehicle.)**

 **(I know this is probably too early to be asking for reviews, but I do want to know if I make any mistakes regarding italicization. Russian words and character's thoughts are italicized, which will make it easier when we start delving into mind control.)**


	3. Chapter 3

**(AN: This is a short chapter, but we will introduce one of the main characters from the series. I've tried to write him as close to in-character as possible, but don't get too off-put if he seems to be "too nice." At this point, he is not yet ready to, well, you know.)**

* * *

Jozef's eyes suddenly snapped open and he found himself alone in the same room he had been dragged into almost six months ago. The sole light in the room was on, but there was no one else in the room with him. He rose from the metal chair in which he had been sitting, and saw that he was not restrained. Walking over to the door, he found that it was locked tightly. With one fist he banged upon it, but to no avail. He sighed and walked back and forth across the room slowly, his mind abuzz with consternation and concern. What had happened to him? Why was he here and locked up? If he had done wrong, why had he not been merely shot instead of locked away? What did they want with him?

After three minutes, he heard the lock on the door starting to rattle. By this time Jozef had taken a seat in the chair, resting his face in his hands as he tried to calm himself down. He looked up and saw that the door had been opened and a man in a brown coat had entered the room with him. The man bore a resemblance to the images of Vladimir Lenin, which had been shown many times throughout the six weeks of training at officer academy; the main difference was that he was completely bald and looking more healthy. Furthermore, Jozef noticed that there was something odd about this man: his blue eyes were deeply set into his face, and Jozef could not stand to look at them directly for more than a few seconds. On the back of his head was some kind of metal apparatus with wires leading from the apparatus down into the back of his jacket: on the front of his forehead was a strange symbol.

"Comrade Jozef Tankian," the man spoke, and Jozef's blood froze: his voice was the same soft whisper that had been muttering in his mind earlier.

"I have heard interesting about you," the strange bald man continued. "But, perhaps, you are worried that the wrong people might be listening. As I have noticed, you are too smart to believe that words may be spoken with no one listening. That is why I have taken the liberty of having you brought here." With this, the bald man walked over to the portrait of Josef Stalin, took it down from the wall and placed it on the floor: behind the portrait was a tiny alcove with a microphone and a recording device hidden.

"As you can see, comrade," the bald man stated, pressing a button on the recording device. "Red light means it is recording; when there is no light, it is safe to speak." Once he pressed the button, the light vanished. This done, he placed the Stalin portrait back on the wall. He walked over to the hammer and sickle flag and lifted it up: behind was another such device which he deactivated.

"Oh, and don't worry about the men behind these cameras," the bald man continued. "They have been dismissed until further notice. For you see, comrade, I myself am also very skilled at persuading other people to do my will."

"What are you talking about?" Jozef asked. "Who are you?"

"I am Yuri," the bald man replied. "And like you, I am a servant of the Soviet Union. Also, like you, I have certain talents that some men would find...unusual."

"I have no abilities," Jozef returned.

"The dead man whom you ordered to release you on your first day here would say otherwise," Yuri calmly stated. Jozef froze: how did he know about what happened? No one else could have told this Yuri about the incident save for Commissar Dragovich, and he certainly didn't seem to have believed the soldier at the time.

"Do you think your presence here in Moscow was merely an accident?" Yuri asked. "Hardly. There is so much more to you than even you understand."

"And what is that, comrade?" Jozef asked.

"Your ability to influence the thoughts of others," Yuri replied. "As you are uninitiated, your psychic skills are still nascent and untamed. But given time, you may be able to influence the minds of other men without endangering yourself."

"I think you are mistaken, comrade," Jozef replied. "I don't have any psychic abilities. That's nonsense."

"Is it, indeed?" Yuri asked. "How else do you explain the unnatural things that have been happening to you for all your life? Whenever you are afraid, or in pain, or when you are angry, strange, inexplicable things happen? Any thought you speak is obeyed by whomever you are speaking to? You are able to inflict pain upon those who hurt you?"

If Jozef had dismissed what Yuri said before, he was listening now. This strange man, who was purported to be advisor to the Premier, was talking of knowledge that no one outside of Michalovce could possibly know. Unless the KGB knew about what happened when he was nine, which was not wholly outside of the realm of possibility: but if that was the case, why did it take so long for them to do anything about it?

"These things I know," Yuri continued. "Because I myself have experienced similar things before. Will you stand up, please?"

"What?" asked Jozef.

"Will you please stand up?" Yuri repeated.

"Why can't you make me stand up?" Jozef wanted to ask, but suddenly tried to think of something else. If this Yuri could indeed read minds, and had done so in order to learn what he did about Jozef's personal life, he would not stand to be mocked. Instead, he rose to his feet. Yuri then steepled his fingers and, to Jozef's surprise, there was suddenly a horrible clanging noise, as of iron being crushed beneath the maw of a bulldozer. Turning around, he saw the metal chair he had been sitting in crushed and crumpled down into a misshapen metal ball.

"A neat parlor trick, _da_?" Yuri asked. "But that is only the beginning of what powers a mind realized can achieve." There was another loud crunch and the chair behind Jozef was reordered into a chair form. "Have a seat, comrade." Jozef sat down.

"Now then," Yuri continued. "For the remainder of your training as an officer, you will be transferred to the Kremlin, where your personal instruction will take place. You will receive the best military education that the Soviet military can provide to compensate for your absence from this base. Now we must make haste, comrade: time is of the essence. Your papers and your belongings have already been packed in a truck just outside. We will leave at once."

" _Podozhdite_ , comrade," Jozef spoke. Yuri, who was walking towards the door, paused and turned about. Jozef did not hold his gaze, but instead looked at Yuri's boots, tried to compose himself, and asked his question. "Why am I here? I mean, here in Moscow, being trained to be an officer in the Red Army."

"I think you know the answer, comrade," Yuri replied. "And if you don't, I suggest that you not worry about such matters. There are far worse fates one can suffer for asking too many questions in Moscow than the firing squad."

With that, Yuri left the room but the door was not closed behind him. Jozef stood up and saw several men in brown jackets with red berets guarding the hall: they were all armed with AK-47s. He rubbed his eyes but said nothing and tried to empty his mind: the last comment about the firing squad made him almost certain that this Yuri could do more than bend metal with his thoughts. Everything he had said about control made him nervous, and he wondered again just how much this Yuri knew about him and his past.

* * *

 **(AN: Of course the person in question is Yuri! Now all my subtle hints in the above author's note make sense! Of course there will be doubtless questions about why he didn't just show his power by controlling Jozef's mind or such. That will be addressed, but not yet.)**

 **(As far as Yuri's powers are concerned, taking everything we know from _Red Alert 2_ and _Yuri's Revenge_ in mind [lol, pun intentional], it can be assumed that he has mind control and some level of telekinesis. His initiates certainly have pyro-kinesis, but it might in fact be plausible to assume that his abilities go beyond merely controlling minds. More on that when we discuss Yuri's secret plans for global domination.)**


	4. Chapter 4

**(AN: Tried to give this chapter more substance than the previous one, but some of it ended up being a bit too gruesome, in my opinion, for a T rating. Already I'm concerned that a story based on an RTS sci-fi war game will have more than a few incidents worthy of an M-rating [as you saw with my _Dragonborn_ series, I could get gory when describing battle. Also, with psi powers, nuclear fallout, people being ripped apart by Terror Drones, etc., it seems fair to lean on the side of safety]. Also, since this story plays off the events of _Red Alert 1_ , there will be some things mentioned that are more "serious" than the tone of _RA2_. For the sake of a T-rated prologue, i toned down some of the gory descriptions.)**

* * *

Jozef Tankian was dead. The man who bore that name was no more.

 _November 5th, 1981._

After a month and a half of officer training, Jozef was extracted from the training facility outside of Moscow and taken to the Kremlin fortress within the city limits. The truck he was riding in had no windows in the back, so he did not see outside to where he was going. When the truck finally stopped and one of the AK-bearing guards opened the back, he stepped out into the courtyard of a grand-looking building made of yellow bricks. In the distance he could see tall towers and walls made of red brick: he was inside the Moscow Kremlin. As he stepped out of the truck, he saw Yuri waiting there for him.

"Welcome to the Kremlin, comrade," Yuri said. "We are now standing in the Arsenal, where the Premier's Black-Guard are garrisoned. This will be where you stay. I will have your things brought over to your quarters, which you will have the chance to see afterwards. Come with me, comrade."

Yuri gestured towards Jozef, who easily caught up with the older man's slow, deliberate pace. The armed men fell in rank around them, keeping a close perimeter around the two men as they made their way down the long courtyard and towards the entrance from which the truck had entered. It was a long walk and Yuri spoke no words along the way, neither did the guards. As it had only been a few minutes since he had woken up inside a sealed room, later to be greeted by Yuri, Jozef was wary about asking questions, especially when he had been subtly warned (or threatened?) about the possible consequences of asking prying questions. This Yuri made Jozef uneasy, especially since he seemed to know more about Jozef than he let out.

At the end of the courtyard, the road passed out into a larger square in which several other brick buildings sat. Several of them were of yellow brick with green roofs, but one was gray and made of glass instead of brick: some of the buildings also had bronze onion domes atop their spires. Yuri meanwhile turned left and pointed to a building with a round dome almost directly east of the Arsenal: Jozef knew it was east because the sun was still high in the sky. It must still be morning.

"On the other side of this garden," Yuri said, gesturing towards the domed building. "Is the Senate building. That is where the Premier and the Council of Ministers decide the fate of the Soviet Union. Surely you must be very proud to stand so close to your glorious leader, _da_?"

Jozef nodded, but made no comment.

"As you may appreciate, comrade," Yuri continued. "There are some things that must be kept secret, even from KGB. Therefore, it is best that we conduct our meetings with utmost secrecy. We will meet again when it is time for the first lesson. In the meanwhile, you will continue your training here at the Arsenal."

Yuri nodded and four of the men approached him and the rest remained with Jozef. Without so much as a farewell or a good luck, Yuri and the guards left the entrance of the Arsenal. Jozef, meanwhile, returned to the courtyard to seek out a commissar to give him his duties.

* * *

Three days passed since his arrival at the Kremlin, and for the most part, his training recommenced. There was, of course, confusion over where he was in his training that required his instructors to make inquiries to the NKVD for permission to view his training records. In the meanwhile, he was re-reading _The Communist Manifesto_ and _What Is To Be Done?_

But three days of nothing but the same old, boring platitudes from Marx and Lenin was starting to take its toll on Jozef. Depression was something most people in Michalovce struggled with, living on the edge of ruin on a daily basis. Breadlines, curfews and squalor were natural occurrences that presented a rather bleak outlook on life. Now he had been thrust from that bleak world into a colder, uncaring one where life was so cheap that the firing squad didn't seem as bad as he had once feared.

So much for being comrades, he thought as he threw the Manifesto onto the little olive-green cot that was his bed in a section of the Arsenal barracks. He had already eaten today's rations and, as curfew was approaching, he pushed the book off the bed and went to sleep. His thoughts drifted for a while on what he would do if he could do something, anything. Of course he was never issued a weapon, not even so much as a Makarov, for personal use: those were always given during target practice and under strict supervision. Even if he had a weapon, all he could do would be to kill himself. There were too many armed guards about to cause enough damage in order to escape, and Michalovce, if that could even be called home, was hundreds of kilometers away. He would never reach there in time, even if he managed to leave the red-brick walls of the Kremlin.

No matter where he went, the Soviet Union was there and where they would be, he would be hunted if he tried to escape. Compliance seemed to be his best option for staying alive at the moment: but complying to what? He didn't even know why he had been selected for the officer's training. He had no particular skill as a leader, and certainly no martial training outside of what he was being drilled through every day. Yuri had told him that he thought that he, Jozef, knew why he was here. But that certainly wasn't the case, as far as he could guess. His earliest memories were from age six, living in Michalovce. At no time had he displayed anything remotely of interest from that point until now.

* * *

Somewhere between there and his father, Jozef fell asleep. He did not dream, but when he awoke, he found himself being carried by strong hands; he couldn't see who they were, for all was dark around him. He tried to move, and they held him tighter. He kicked and shouted, but then suddenly he was hit across the back of the head and all went black again. When he came around again, he was in an iron chair, with restraints on his wrists and ankles. He was inside a room made of bare concrete walls, and before him was a blank sheet for a slide projector, with a light shining on it from behind him. He tried to turn his head, but found that his head was also restrained by a leather strap. He could feel himself starting to panic, but he tried to remain calm: he wasn't dead yet.

Suddenly he heard Yuri's voice whispering as if in his ear. The bald man was not in the room with him and, scanning the corners of the room with his eyes, he could see no intercoms for him to be speaking over to him.

"Good evening, comrade," Yuri spoke. "I must apologize for bringing you here so rudely in the middle of the night. Security concerns dictate that no one know the location of this facility: even a video transmission could be intercepted by KGB, you understand. Tonight we will discover the extent of your powers." With this, the video projector kicked off and images began flashing across the sheet; each image lasted for a brief moment before another took its place. Some images were of Red Army parades in Red Square, the red flag with the golden hammer and sickle and red star, or speeches given by Josef Stalin and Premier Romanov. Others, briefly shown in between these, showed smoking villages, pits filled with dead bodies, charred remains and blood, emaciated children strapped into chairs similar to the one Jozef found himself in, and a strange symbol. It dawned upon him that he had seen that very symbol before: it was the mark on Yuri's forehead.

"This is why you are here, comrade," Yuri's voice whispered.

"I...I don't understand," Jozef stammered.

"When you were born," Yuri began. "Your father gave you up to be part of a secret government project. Unfortunately, the Red Army was defeated by the Allied forces. According to official NKVD records, to prevent discovery by the Allies, the facility was destroyed, all research files erased and all test subjects exterminated: that was only half-true. Not all research was destroyed, and your presence here indicates that not all the test subjects were killed."

This new knowledge was more than a little upsetting. Jozef always knew there was a reason he hated his father. Now he saw that it wasn't merely just by being associated with a Stalinist: he had actually thrown him away, given him up to be experimented on. Before his eyes, he saw the images of young children, some of them no older than infants in glass incubators, surrounded by men in white coats. All of them were dead: but many of them had their poor little heads contorted in such ways that he guessed they had died gruesome and painful deaths. Jozef closed his eyes, but a painful shock ran through his body until his eyes opened.

"I must ask you to pay attention, comrade," Yuri's voice continued. "The side effects of your refusal would be...most painful." There was silence, then the voice continued. "As you can see, some of the tests were not successful. But some of them were. You were selected to see if test results were successful."

"Why?" Jozef shouted. "Why was I chosen? For this, this...experiment. For _any_ of this!"

"Your father was loyal to Stalin," Yuri continued. "He would have given his life for him, if Stalin had lived long enough to ask it of him, as he certainly would have done: he even named you after him."

" _Nyet!_ " Jozef replied. A month and a half of hearing and speaking nothing but Russian made the language second nature to him.

"He felt that sacrificing his firstborn for this project was the ultimate sign of his loyalty," Yuri's voice spoke, heedless of Jozef's protests. "As for why you were brought to Moscow, that you will learn in time. As for why you were brought into the officer's training academy, that was so that I could keep an eye on you and see if you were indeed the one I sought."

"What do you want from me?" Jozef asked.

"Nothing," Yuri's voice said. His voice was calm and assuring, but that made Jozef even more nervous. "Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the show."

The images on the screen continued to flash, and in between them he could hear Yuri's voice muttering something almost incomprehensible, hidden beneath a soft, ringing tone. As the harrowing visuals continued, Jozef found his arms struggling against the restraints: he had to get out of here, get his hands free and cover his eyes. The more he became agitated, the clearer the voice became. Now he could hear the words and what was being said:

 _Tell me about the woman who rescued you from facility._

" _Chto_?" he asked. The voice repeated its command. Jozef chuckled. "That never happened, I don't remember..."

Suddenly he could see another image in his mind: farther back than the bombed ruins of Michalovce, hidden from his memory. He saw a woman with hazel eyes in a white coat arguing with another man in white. He saw her draw out a weapon and cut him down, then suddenly she picked him up and her face became obscured by the lights overhead as she carried him away.

 _Tell me about her,_ Yuri's voice insisted calmly.

Suddenly the lights went out and there was darkness. Then a bright light was turned on and he could see the silhouette of the woman. To his surprise, she handed him over to someone else who took him away from her. In the dark he could see nothing, then for one last moment he saw the light pass over her face and he could see it again: one last glance of hazel eyes and brunette hair and then the image vanished. No sooner had the image vanished but Jozef realized that his eyes were watering.

" _Nyet,_ " he breathed.

 _Tell me._

" _Nyet!_ " he repeated.

 _I order you to tell me,_ Yuri's voice continued, calm but now filled with menace.

" _Nyet!_ " Jozef denied, gritting his teeth for what he knew would come. If he was going to be tortured to death by the shock, at least he would be free.

 _Do you fear the shock from the tesla generator?_ Yuri's voice whispered. _There are much more efficient ways to cause pain._

Jozef shouted: he was suddenly struck by the most profound and painful headache he had ever felt. The ringing was now so loud that it seemed his ears would burst at any second. Like a knife being dragged across bone still within the living body, the whisper of Yuri's voice continued.

 _I am Yuri. Obey me. Tell me about her._

" _Nyet!_ " Jozef shouted in defiance.

Suddenly the tone faded, the pain in his head subsided and Jozef collapsed against the head restraints. He was still awake, but his eyes saw only blackness and every nerve was numb. As he drifted in this state, he saw that he dreamed: again he was inside a room with grimy pale blue tiles and bright lights on the ceiling. Around him were several men in white coats, white gloves, white masks over their faces, white caps upon their heads and goggles over their eyes. One was making notations on a clipboard, and speaking words in Russian that he couldn't make out. The others disappeared from sight until only two remained.

To his surprise, one of the two that remained had no goggles and he could see hazel eyes inside the face.

"Sir!" the hazel-eyed figure spoke to the goggled man. The voice was that of a woman. "Patient 3164 has been moved to Testing Chamber 07 for re-examination. Foreman's orders. I'll take him there."

" _Nyet, podozdhite,_ " the goggled man replied. "I'm going to have to clear that with foreman." The goggled man walked over to a beam in the center of the room where a phone sat on its hook. No sooner had he picked it up but the woman pulled out a Tokarev and pointed it at the goggled man.

"Put down the phone, comrade," she ordered.

"What is this?" the goggled man queried.

"Put it down!" she repeated.

"Traitor!" shouted the goggled man into the phone's mouth-piece, but too late. The woman fired off a round into his chest, sending him down to the floor. The woman walked over to the incubator, opened it up and picked him up.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, _malyutka_ ," she said. "But I had no other choice. I'm getting you out of here."

The dream faded away as Jozef's eyes blinked open. He was still in the chair, bound hand, foot and head, in the bare, empty concrete room. The sheet was gone, replaced with a large red flag with the hammer and sickle upon it, and a lone light shone from the ceiling: it seemed as though no time had passed. Jozef tried to move, but found that only his eyes could move: every other limb was paralyzed and felt heavy beyond his ability to move it. To his horror he saw Yuri standing before him, his gloved hands holding something metal that looked like a large, thin semi-circle.

"Welcome back, comrade," Yuri greeted. He now spoke congenially, as to a friend; if there was any hint of the menace that was in his voice earlier, it was buried deeper than Jozef could discern.

"The preliminary tests have been completed," he continued. "You have great psychic potential, but no way of harnessing your power or controlling it outside of moments of great duress. For that reason, comrade, allow me to present you with this gift." He walked over to Jozef and, without taking his hands off the thin semi-circle, the restraints on Jozef's head were removed and fell away. With both hands, Yuri gently placed the device on Jozef's head, resting each end behind his ears. There was a sudden sharp pain, but Jozef was paralyzed: only a dead, zombie-like groan escaped his gaping mouth.

"This Psychic Focusing and Acuity Collar will allow you to utilize your nascent psychic abilities at any given moment," Yuri explained. "However, as you are untrained, there is not much you will be able to accomplish on your own. Together, however, we will unlock your true potential. That is all."

Jozef's eyes darkened and the room vanished into the sea of blackness.

* * *

 **(AN: Why do they keep knocking him out and dragging him away in the middle of the night, you may ask. Well, the underground bunkers underneath the Kremlin [where Yuri can be seen in _Red Alert 2_ with his psychic experiments, and where Cherdenko, Krukov and Dr. Zelinsky vanished with their knock-off Tesla-powered time machine in _Red Alert 3_ ] are so secret that only a few know of their existence. Also, in the words of Gabriel Iglesias, "invitations are for pussies, my friend!")**

 **(At this point, you might be asking yourselves where _Children of the Dragon_ is. Well, that's still in development, but i don't know if i'm ready to release that. After _The Force Awakens_...awoke, there was some conflict among _Star Wars_ fans as to if the main character [Rey] is an overpowered mary sue character. As my last attempt at writing [the ill-fated _Lord of the Rings_ Nazgul prequel story about Adunaphel] was criticized as such, i haven't written anything since: i also have brought _Children of the Dragon_ to a halt, since i don't know if i can make Sigrun Eiriksdottir "interesting" enough for you anti-Nord folk while at the same time making her warrior-strong, but not impossibly MS-like [i'm of the belief that Rey is a bit OP]. So I'm going to have a test-run with this little prologue, to see if i fail or not.)**


	5. Chapter 5

**(AN: Speaking of my ill-fated Nazgul prequel fic, there is a moment here that was [in a way] inspired by my version of what would have been a scene from _Lord of the Nazgul_ , the fic about Er-Murazor, the Witch-king, in which he learns sorcery from Sauron in a very...discomforting way. Obviously Jozef isn't as blatantly evil as the Witch-king, but i had to get some of this out if that fic-trilogy is in fic-hell thanks to the reviewers that are bold enough to call Adunaphel a MS but aren't bold enough to write out their own critiques publicly and on my story or, better yet, make suggestions!)**

 **(But enough of that: this is the longest chapter in this fic yet! As far as length of this prologue, it's a mini short-story, in that it won't have ten chapters. Also, in case you were wondering about how heavy things got in the last chapter, there is more to come. But, also, there is something that might be a little jarring for you. You see, i enjoyed _Red Alert 2_ , campy-ness and all. So since this is my fic, i thought that i would capture [or try to capture] a bit of the funnier side that i enjoyed of the _RA2_ story. I will try not to go into the realms of _Red Alert 3_ , but to strike a balance between heavy and humorous that will hopefully make the story enjoyable.)**

 **(Many cameos from _RA3_ characters in this chapter, with one hidden in plain sight. I'll let you try to guess.)**

* * *

For the rest of the month of November, Jozef Tankian continued his officer training at the Arsenal. Though no less rigorous than the old facility, it was easier to forget the fear of the firing squad. But another fear was rearing its head in Jozef's life: the fear of Yuri. After the first encounter, he had woken up in his bedroom with the next's day's lessons moving ahead. His instructors did not answer him when he asked how many days he had been away and what he missed. For all that he could have known, it may have been only one night, or several days, or even a week. Throughout November at random times during the night and without notice, Jozef would disappear from his dorm-room and find himself in the same concrete cell. Yuri was always there, and that only served to strengthen his fear of him.

That is not to say that things were going poorly. Apparently he was retaining the training he received during the day and was told that, before the New Year, he would be receiving his promotion to the rank of _starshina_ : a junior officer rank. His duties would be mostly administrative, effectively a quartermaster who would be often within the base and see action only to evacuate wounded soldiers or collect POWs. As there was no war, the prospect of keeping the soldiers of the Red Army up to standard wasn't exactly the worst thing that could happen.

Even the secret training sessions were more than a terror to him. The second time he found himself in the concrete room, he did not feel himself on the verge of a meltdown: even with Yuri in the room with him. Though he was unnerved by the bald man's presence and his voice made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, Jozef didn't feel as overwhelmed as before.

"Good evening, comrade," Yuri addressed, speaking with his own voice. "How are you feeling?"

"Well enough," Jozef replied.

"As it should be," Yuri continued. "The P-FAAC is working as it should. In our last meeting, I learned that your psychic abilities were unleashed in moments of emotional stress. With this device, you will be able to access them at will. Now, then, I have here a test for your new abilities. I'm certain you will find controlling your psychic abilities will be much easier now."

"Why are you doing this?" Jozef asked.

"As I told you before," Yuri returned. "You are part of Stalin's psychic legacy, one that I, with the blessing of Premier Romanov, will bring to its fulfillment."

"What does that mean?" Jozef asked.

With this, Yuri paused and turned away. Jozef saw a panel on the wall opposite his chair fall away of its own accord, and a red light suddenly go off in a shadowy alcove where the panel had been. Yuri then slowly turned around, stroking his goatee pensively as he began to speak.

"No doubt you've read this from your study of Marx in your officer training," Yuri began. "The very nature of communism is revolutionary. We must be ready at any moment to rise up in arms to spread equality and socialism by force in every country of the world. All this talk is good enough for the poor nations of the Latin Confederation, or the Peoples Republic of China and North Korea, or even the countries of the Eastern bloc such as Czechoslovakia. They have already suffered and are ready to embrace the World Socialist Alliance and all that it has to offer.

"But in order for all men to truly be equal, the World Socialist Alliance must truly be global. However, that is easier said than done. The Western nations, in particular the United States of America, have been staunch opponents of socialism since the Great War. There are many among them who are determined to withstand any revolution of the people to the death. Until such people can be properly re-educated, there is only one way for all men to be willing to join their comrades of the working class: their minds must be brought under control of the enlightened servants of the people."

While Yuri spoke, Jozef noticed that he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, his eyes focusing on the opposite corner of the room as if in deep thought.

"So what does that mean for me?" Jozef asked.

"It means, comrade," Yuri continued. "That we must continue your training." Yuri nodded wordlessly, and a door opened behind Jozef's head. To his surprise and alarm, two men in white coats appeared pushing a stretcher covered in a white sheet into the room. It was raised up on one end and seated against the wall opposite Jozef's chair, and the sheet that was upon it was removed. A large, muscular bald man was lying on the stretcher, with leather restraints binding him from head to foot. The men in white stood on either side of the up-turned stretcher, as if waiting for orders.

"Who is that?" Jozef inquired.

"This man," Yuri replied, gesturing to the large man. "Was sent to gulag by KGB. A member of his family was found with seditious material. However, his labor re-education has proven to be in vain. He was sentenced to the firing squad, but I brought him here to be part of your private training."

"How?" Jozef asked.

"I want you to look into this man's eyes," Yuri continued. "Concentrate on them and nothing else. Then, without speaking a word, I want you to give him a command."

"A command?" Jozef incredulously inquired.

"Any command," Yuri replied.

Jozef looked at the large man. He seemed to be rather dangerous-looking: Jozef was slim and malnourished, from years of eating less than his body required, while this man's body was hardened from who knew how many weeks, months or even years of hard labor in the gulag. He seemed strong enough to break out of his restraints at a moment's notice, and certainly having no qualms about killing him if he wanted to escape. Even if he was back in Michalovce and saw this man walking in the streets, he would have avoided him.

Yet there was something about his eyes that made Jozef uncomfortable, but not in the same way that Yuri's eyes did. When he happened to catch Yuri's glance, he felt as though those blue eyes could see straight through him. Nothing seemed hidden from him, and trying to hide something from him was futile with such keen eyes constantly staring you down (which made Jozef wonder about the last time he was down here, but not in Yuri's presence: just how much could this Yuri read of his thoughts). But this man's eyes were full of fear. Perhaps he also had been taken out of a place that had become like home to him, dragged into this place in the middle of the night and tied down like a wild animal.

Jozef had always hated other people for how they treated him, and now, to feel something else towards someone else, something that had only been reserved for himself, made Jozef uneasy.

"Why do you hesitate, comrade?" Yuri asked. "Don't tell me you feel _sorry_ for this traitor to the Soviet people?" Yuri scoffed. "If his life means that much to you, then do as I've asked. He's only being kept alive to serve your training."

Jozef sighed and looked at the inmate. He tried to look him in the eyes and force down any uncomfortable feelings he might be having. Instead he filled his mind with only one thought: _Move your right arm_. He wanted to put to the test his belief that this man could break the restraints. Instead there was nothing.

"Well?" Yuri asked.

"I can't do it," Jozef groaned. "Can't we start with something easier?"

"Forgive me, comrade," Yuri replied. "For having confidence in your abilities. Perhaps I was wrong about you? Maybe I shall inform Commissar Dragovich of your failure..."

" _Nyet,_ " Jozef groaned again. "I'll try again."

"Excellent," Yuri grinned. "Now, give him a command."

Jozef closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind of any thought or feeling that might be floating through at this time. He certainly tried his best to forget that Yuri was there: any distraction might make this harder to do, and he was worried that, if he failed, Yuri would make good on his promise. Once his mind was clear, his hazel-brown eyes snapped open and stared at the bald man on the other side of the room. They made eye contact for a brief moment.

 _Move your right arm,_ thought Jozef.

Still there was nothing. Jozef strained, trying to think about what he could do to make this work. Then suddenly a dark thought flashed into his mind: what if he wasn't doing it right? He remembered the last time he was in this room, when Yuri made his mind explode with pain for refusing his command. Though he certainly couldn't do what Yuri could do, this dark thought continued to worm its way into his brain. Yuri had had him bound and restrained and was trying to force you to tell him about her. Then suddenly it dawned upon him: it wasn't enough merely to give a command, he had to bend this man to his will. He held his gaze again, imagining that this bald, muscle-bound thug was Yuri, and cleared his mind again.

 _You are under my control,_ he thought. _Everything you do is at my will. If you do not act exactly as I say, your loved ones will be killed. Move your right arm. Obey._

The restraints rattled as they were tightened.

"I think that is enough for tonight," Yuri said: his voice was unreadable. "You've taken your first step, comrade. But there is a long way to go before you can truly control a man's thoughts. You are dismissed."

Darkness once again filled Jozef's mind and he knew no more.

* * *

 _December 6th, 1981_

That morning, Jozef Tankian awoke, put on his clothes and looked at the summons. His graduation ceremony, where he would be officially medal'd and given his rank, was to be held at 10 o'clock in the morning at the Grand Palace of the Kremlin. Though he had been at the Kremlin since early November, he had never been permitted to enter the Grand Palace. For the occasion he was given a light brown uniform with a dark brown jacket and, matching the uniform, a peaked cap with a red band upon which was a little pin at the front of the hammer and sickle.

It had been a strange journey indeed, from being dragged into a cattle car in the dead of night and shipped off to Moscow for conscription, then selected for the officer training program, and now Yuri's private lessons. Progress was going slowly, for Jozef realized that forcing a living person to obey your thoughts was much harder than Yuri believed. There were simpler lessons, wherein Jozef managed to move inanimate objects with his mind to his great delight. There was still much progress to be made, of course, but at least for the moment he was allowed to celebrate the completion of something.

After putting on his uniform and making sure it was neat looking, Jozef made his way out of the Arsenal and down the wide street towards the Grand Palace. As he approached the staircase that led to the entrance of the great white building that was the Grand Palace, the Black Guards called for him to halt. Jozef presented them with the summons, after which they gave him leave to enter. He had been directed to arrive at the Georgievsky Hall at 10 o'clock, but he had no idea where it was in this massive palace of gold and white, inside as much as outside. As he entered the bell from the gold onion-domed Bell-Tower of Ivan the Great tolled a quarter till ten.

While he was thus looking about, Jozef found a mirror in one of the grand, gilded halls in which he examined himself. He was less emaciated than his days on the streets of Michalovce, and his uniform fitted his new, healthier form better. His light brown hair was down to his shoulders and his chin bore a short beard that, no matter how much he left it alone or tried to shave it, never grew any longer. Beneath his peaked cap was the P-FAAC, the Psychic Focusing and Acuity Collar: but with the cap on, he cut a stunning figure. Thus impressed with himself, he went on his way, only to run headlong into a woman in a light brown officer's uniform like his.

" _Izvinite!_ " Jozef excused himself.

" _Vinovat,_ comrade," the woman pardoned in reply.

"Pardon me," Jozef asked. "But is this Georgievsky Hall?"

" _Nyet,_ " the woman replied, shaking her head with a smile. " _Nyet,_ this is Aleksandrovsky Hall. _Nyet,_ the one you want is that way..." She pointed left. "...then you are left taking, _da_?"

" _Spasibo,_ comrade," Jozef thanked, sheepishly giving a smile in return. His eyes followed the woman as she turned and walked away: it wasn't necessarily to look at her long pony-tail of light-brown hair, almost the same shade as his own. But no sooner had she turned the corner but Jozef realized something very odd about this woman.

Though Jozef had hardly been in every hall and building in the Kremlin, he knew how the other Russians spoke Russian. They never let him forget that he spoke it poorly, like a filthy _chuzhak_. This young woman also spoke Russian like a foreigner, but it was not the way he spoke it. In fact, he never heard anyone speak it quite like she did. He wondered if she was even Russian at all, but then he remembered that he had somewhere to be in less than twenty minutes and still had no idea where he was going.

With less than ten minutes to spare, he finally found the Georgievsky Hall, and made his way to where two great red flags hanged from the white walls of the palace room. With nervous anticipation he waited: from what he had learned almost a month ago, his rank would be bestowed upon him by the Premier himself. Though he hadn't been as 're-educated' as the training had intended, from the grand palace in which he stood, he felt as though he was about to meet royalty.

Therefore it was to his great surprise and disappointment that a tall, thin man with sandy-blond hair and a round face approached him and saluted. Jozef returned the salute.

"Comrade _Starshina_ ," the man greeted. "I am Sergey Bronislav, Secretary to the Premier. Unfortunately, Premier is occupied with matters of state and cannot attend this ceremony: as such, he sends me with his regards." With this, Sergey called to another man standing behind him who bore a wooden box. Secretary Bronislav opened the box and presented to Jozef a little silver badge upon which were two sheaves of wheat around a globe, which had upon it the hammer and sickle and above it a red star.

"Comrade Premier also wishes to extend to you an invitation to dinner here at the Georgievsky Hall at five o'clock this evening," Secretary Bronislav said. "He has received report of your progress and wishes to meet you in person."

"I will be there," Jozef replied.

"Very good, comrade," Bronislav nodded. He then leaned in and spoke in a whisper. "Keep the uniform, for tonight at least."

" _Da_ , comrade Secretary," Jozef nodded in answer.

* * *

After a brief and meager lunch - though the perks of the being a _starshina_ meant he didn't have to wait in breadlines for food, the rations he was permitted weren't the best either - Jozef lost himself in the beautiful gardens outside of the Kremlin Arsenal. Even covered in late autumnal snow, the gardens were still glorious to behold. He buried his hands in his armpits, as he hadn't been issued gloves with his uniform. The breath from his mouth poured out like smoke and the steel of the P-FAAC chilled his ears.

As far as he knew, he began his duties the next day. For today, however, he had a bit of respite to think on what he could do now. Though he had a rank, non-commissioned though it may be, he wondered how far he might be able to go if he tried to leave Moscow. But even this didn't seem likely, as he would most certainly be caught for deserting before leaving the red-brick walls of the Kremlin. Escape still seemed a thing of the past now: compliance was his best option.

As in such moments, his thoughts drifted once again to Yuri. Though the private lessons were going along well, he still did not forget that first night. A beaten dog would think twice about licking the hand that struck it. But aside from that, there was something else about Yuri that perplexed Jozef, but of which he dared not mention during their meetings. Yuri seemed to know quite a bit about Jozef's past, whether because of KGB or his ability to control minds. Jozef had no doubt that Yuri possessed some kind of ability to control things with his mind; what Yuri had called 'telekinesis', the branch of psychic object manipulation to which Jozef had some proficiency. But if Yuri could read minds and talked over and over about controlling them, how could he not control Jozef's mind when it came to the question of the woman who had rescued him? Why had he not succeeded in forcing the information out of him?

The hours went on as Jozef went about, sometimes in the gardens and sometimes in his room in the Arsenal, until he heard the bell from the Ivan the Great tower ring a quarter till the hour. He cleaned off his uniform and made his way back to the Grand Kremlin Palace. Unfortunately, the guards didn't let him pass this time.

"But I was invited to have dinner with the Premier!" Jozef insisted.

"That's what they all say, comrade," one of the Black Guards scoffed. "Unless you have papers to show you were invited, you can go back the way you came."

Jozef turned about and groaned in frustration, kicking the snow as he went. He couldn't tell them that his invitation was only by word. With one last, hopeless effort, he turned about and said.

"Comrade Secretary Bronislav gave me the information!" he said. "Go find him and tell him that _Starshina_ Tankian is here."

"No papers, no entrance, comrade," the Black Guard replied. "Now clear off before we feed you to the dogs." His fellow guard laughed and Jozef lowered his head as he walked away. While he was going, he saw a couple in thick fur coats with their faces locked, swaying this way and that as they made their way toward the entrance of the Grand Palace, straight towards him. As they approached, the taller of the couple, a man about his height with a large, thick beard, broke off from kissing his shorter, blonde date and saw Jozef.

"Good evening, comrade!" he greeted, his voice slurring somewhat: the smell of vodka on his breath gave away that he had had more than a few drinks. "Why the long face? Did you not get invitation to party?"

"Party?" Jozef asked. "You know about that?"

"Of course, comrade!" the bearded man replied. "Don't you know who I am?"

" _Nyet,_ I'm sorry, I don't," Jozef returned.

"I am Boris Shkuratov, Hero of the Soviet people," the bearded man replied. "I'm...what is it that capitalists call it...celebrity! I'm always invited to big parties Premier holds. There's no party like communist party, eh comrade?" At this, the bearded man chuckled loudly, then broke off into loud, hacking coughs.

"Never heard of me, he says," laughed Boris, once the coughing fit subsided. "I like you, comrade. Come, you will join me and Zhana; we will get you into big party. Comrade Premier always has the best parties anywhere in Soviet Union!"

"You can do that?" Jozef asked.

"I am Hero of the Soviet people," Boris repeated. "They let me take in whoever I want. Come, come, we don't want to be late." With this, Boris and Zhana made their way towards the steps leading to the Grand Kremlin Palace, and Jozef fell in behind them. When they reached the Black Guards, both of the masked soldiers stood at attention and saluted Boris, who doffed the little beret he was wearing and nodded to them in respect. Upon noticing the smaller hat in his hands, Boris gave it to Zhana and went on inside, then paused and turned around to the guards and pointed at Jozef.

"He's with me."

With this, the Black Guards let Jozef fall in behind Boris and Zhana, who were now exchanging hats: obviously they had been wearing each other's hats, because the brown, fuzzy _ushanka_ that Zhana had been wearing was too large for her head. It nearly covered half of her face, just as her little beret only covered the balding spot of Boris' head, but neither of them were sober enough to care very much. Despite the copious amounts of vodka they had been drinking, both Boris and Zhana seemed to know where they were going; this was rather comforting for Jozef, who had forgotten the way back to Georgievsky Hall.

* * *

When they arrived, they found that several tables had already been arrayed in the large white and gold hall. The ceiling was filled with light from the many chandeliers and there were many waiters and waitresses waiting on the many guests seated at the tables. At one table the three of them sat, and they each placed their hats upon the table. Boris and Jozef each had seats across from each other, but Zhana sat in Boris' lap.

"Trust me, comrade," Boris said to Jozef. "Things might seem calm now, but after vodka and champagne have gone around, this place will be wilder than Siberian wasteland!"

"So, comrade," Zhana said to Jozef. "What brings you to Moscow?"

"Officer training," Jozef replied. "I've been made _Starshina._ "

" _Starshina_?" Boris coughed. "Then that means we both outrank you! Before I was Hero of the Soviet people, I was Colonel in NKVD. I have special training in assassinating high profile targets, _da_? Zhana here..." He planted a kiss on the blonde's cheek. "...she may look like little kitten, but in air she is unstoppable!"

"Are you in the air force?" Jozef asked.

"Captain-lieutenant in the new MiG Division," Zhana replied. "They were shut down after Great War, but have been reinstated at request from Premier."

"Shut down by whom?" Jozef asked.

"Allied dogs," grumbled Boris. He spat on the ground, which brought a waiter over with a cloth who wiped up the spot as inconspicuously as possible, then turned back to Jozef. "After Allies defeat Red Army in Great War, pass ban on all military aircraft. But Premier Romanov defied Allied ban, reinstated MiG program for special use by me." He patted his chest.

"A team of four highly-trained airmen were commissioned," Zhana said. "To pilot a squad of MiG fighter-bombers. I am one of them."

"What do you use them for?" Jozef asked.

"Have special-made laser sight on AK-47," Boris continued. "Pin-point heavy targets to be blown all to hell by Zhana and her wing-mates." He exclaimed so loudly that some of the others at their tables looked over in surprise. "What a girl, _da_? She kicks ass and has one that does not quit!"

" _Stydno!_ " Zhana exclaimed, playfully shoving Boris' chest.

"I don't lie, _devushka_ ," Boris protested. "It's true."

While Boris and Zhana were going back and forth, Jozef noticed Comrade Secretary approaching their table.

"Excuse me, Comrade _Starshina,_ " he said. "The Premier has requested that you join him at his table."

" _Chto?_ " exclaimed Boris.

" _Uz_?" added Zhana.

"Oh, Comrade _Starshina!_ " exclaimed Boris. "That is high honor!"

"I'll be there shortly," Jozef said to Bronislav.

"Premier requests that I escort you to his table at once," Bronislav clarified.

"Go!" urged Boris. "Do not keep Comrade Premier waiting."

" _Udachi,_ Comrade _Starshina,_ " Zhana bade.

"Oh!" interjected Boris as Jozef left the table. "Do stick around party until later. There will be more ass in this room than you can handle, _da_?"

Jozef nodded sheepishly as he fell in line behind Secretary Bronislav. For the first time in a while he was stunned. Rarely had people in his life shown him much courtesy: even the elders who took care of him until he was six years old only did so because he was a small boy and, though they hated him for what he represented, he couldn't defend himself. It meant something that this man had practically welcomed him in at the first meeting. To be sure, it was a little unnerving after so long in solitude, but something was different.

Perhaps the new control over his thoughts and his emotions made him less desirous of solitude.

* * *

Bronislav brought Jozef to a table where he announced his arrival. At the table were several of the faces which Jozef had seen on the television. As he was about to sit down, a balding man with a stout belly rose from his seat and approached Jozef. He hugged him and planted a kiss on his left cheek: rather strange for most people, but in Soviet Russia, a kiss on the cheek wasn't as strange as in other countries.

"Welcome, Comrade _Starshina!_ " greeted Alexander Romanov with a deep, rumbling voice that was filled with goodwill and happiness. "We were just wondering where you were. The feast is about to begin. Come, come, have a seat." Jozef sat down at the table as the Premier made his way over to his seat. At his right-hand Jozef noticed Yuri quietly sipping tea from a fine cup of white gilded china. Once Jozef was at his seat, Romanov called for one of the waitresses nearby to pour a glass of champagne for the newest member of their table: just as she was leaving, Romanov gave the waitress' rear a good smack and burst into laughter.

"Comrades," Premier Romanov said to those at the table. "Meet our newest _starshina_. He has performed admirably in academy. I am thinking he may be the one for this task, _da_?"

"I have personally overseen his training regiment, Comrade Premier," Yuri said. "I am in agreement with your assessment."

"I am not so sure about this," a middle-aged mustached man in a black uniform bedazzled with medals interjected. "This task may not be as important, but it is part of our great crusade against the capitalist swine! I would hardly put its fate in the hands of an inexperienced officer just out of academy." Jozef saw at the man in black's side was another middle-aged man, shorter than the Premier but with similar body shape; but there the resemblance ended. While the Premier's face was round and clean-shaven, this man had a graying beard and mustache upon his chin and his face, while having grown with age, was more angular and keen. This man cleared his throat very loudly, with his eyes averted but aimed in the general direction of the man in black.

"I say this with the utmost respect to your eminent wisdom, Comrade Premier," the man in black apologized.

" _Da_ , of course," Premier Romanov nodded. He then turned to a large man with wild graying hair and a thick beard whose attention was on one of the shapely waitresses serving another table. "What do you think, Vladimir?"

"Hmm?" the bearded man muttered, turning back to the table. "Oh, yes, of course. You are our leader, Comrade Premier. Your wish is our command."

" _Otlichno_ , Comrade General!" laughed the Premier. "Loyal to the end!" The Premier then turned to Jozef. "Comrade _Starshina_ , let me go around the table and introduce these esteemed members of our cabinet. I am understanding you already know Comrade Yuri, _da_?" Jozef nodded, and Yuri quietly took a sip from his cup, his eyes trained in Jozef's direction. The look that he gave him made Jozef uneasy, as though he was being keenly watched by one who disapproved of what was happening. Suddenly the Premier slapped Yuri's shoulder with his right hand: the bald man closed his eyes as if in frustration.

"Yuri has been an invaluable advisor to me during my time as Premier," Romanov lauded. "Without him, we would not be where we are today, ready to begin our glorious cause." He then removed his hand and gestured towards the man with the large beard. "This is General Vladimir Grigoryevich, one of the finest commanding officers of the Red Army." The bearded man did not seem to acknowledge Jozef, but instead was still gazing off at the waitress in question.

"And quite the ladies man, also, _da_?" Romanov added, with a wink and loud, raucous laughter. "To your right is General-Lieutenant Nikolai Krukov. Unlike Vladimir, he is very serious-minded and only cares for the well-being of the people."

"As should we all, Comrade Premier," Krukov added, a confident smile on his face as he addressed Romanov. "I myself have fought and shed blood for Mother Russia and for the glory of the Soviet Union in the Great War." He turned to Jozef. "Every medal upon my breast I have earned with the blood of capitalist pigs and with that of comrades. _My_ service to the people is second to none."

" _Konechno_ , of course," Romanov agreed. "Next to him is his adjutant, Colonel Anatoly Cherdenko. You will need one such as him on your first assignment."

"Assignment?" Jozef asked.

" _Da_ , Comrade _Starshina_ ," Romanov began. "That is why you are here. Six months ago, Comrade Yuri won for the people of Soviet Union a glorious victory here in Moscow. For almost thirty years the Allied dogs of the West have tried to corrupt the minds of the people of Moscow with their capitalist propaganda. But, thanks to Comrade Yuri, the television network in Moscow has been reclaimed in the name of the workers of Moscow. This has all been in preparation for our glorious crusade."

Jozef paused. He had heard those words before when he arrived at Moscow and again spoken by Krukov just now. During the first month and a half at the base, Commissar Dragovich had refused to answer anyone who inquired about any 'glorious crusade', and Yuri hadn't mentioned it at all during their secret training sessions.

"Forgive me, Comrade Premier," Jozef spoke. "But what 'glorious crusade' do you speak of?"

"Why, the beginning of the world revolution, of course!" Romanov laughed long and merrily, but Jozef noticed someone among the waiters waiting the other dignitaries at the tables. Though she was clad in a white dress shirt and a black mini-skirt now, he recognized the young woman he had run into earlier that day.

"Members of the Politburo, Comrade Starshina," Cherdenko noted, thinking Jozef was looking at the men at the tables. "The Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union, the Council of Ministers, Senior Officers of the Red Army and the Navy, ambassadors from the Latin Confederation and the Peoples Republic of China. They are all here for the Premier's glorious party to celebrate the beginning of the revolution."

But Jozef was waiting for the young woman to turn around so he could get a better look at her face. For the moment there was silence as, at the table, another waitress began pouring the champagne for each of the guests. As she came to Yuri, he held up his hand and shook his head.

" _Da_ , the revolution," he spoke aloud. "And it is for that purpose that I must now leave."

"Oh, come now, Comrade Yuri!" Romanov protested. "You work hard for the good of the Soviet Union every day. You need rest."

"There is no rest for the wicked, Comrade Premier," Yuri replied. "Continue the party in my absence, and I wish you, Comrade Premier, the very best on this endeavor."

" _Spasibo_ , comrade," Romanov nodded. Yuri then placed his cup and saucer on the table and arose from his seat. By now Jozef's attention had been drawn away from the woman in question: she had turned her back about the time Yuri made his departure from the table. Jozef noticed that he was walking through the tables and towards where she was working.

"Is there something you need, Comrade _Starshina_?" Romanov asked. "Anything you want, just name it and it will be yours."

"You are too generous, Comrade Premier," Krukov stated. "This _starshina_ should prove himself before he is lauded with gifts, as though he has already conquered before the war has started."

"Nonsense!" Romanov dismissed. " _Davay,_ comrade! Surely there must be something I can give you as a token of my appreciation for your volunteering for this great task."

"Um, what great task?" Jozef asked.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid, comrade?" Krukov asked. "It is what we have been talking about since before your arrival at this table! The great Soviet revolution, the second war against the Allied forces."

"Da, Comrade Starshina," Romanov said, speaking to Jozef. All jest seemed to fade from his round face, and his mouth, so often bursting with smiles and laughter, curled into a frown. "Twenty-six years ago, the Allied forces invaded Mother Russia! The Kremlin was besieged and in ruins, foreigners were invading our beloved country! Such a thing has not happened since Napoleon's foolish attempt to invade Tsarist Russia! But _Obshchiye Zima_ , General Winter, was not on our side. The Allies were not daunted by the harsh weather and their occupation force remained! Worse, news soon spread that Comrade Stalin, the Premier of the Soviet Union, was dead.

"I was there, comrade. I was a soldier in the Red Army. We fought on until the order was given to stand down; we were utterly defeated. But the Allies were not merely satisfied with defeating us: they intended to break us! Our military was emasculated, our air-force program terminated, our submarines dismantled. Mother Russia was violated by these capitalist dogs from the West: and where was the United States of America? The so-called defenders of the poor and innocent from the imperialist machinations of fascist first world countries? They were the ones _supplying_ the Allies with funds, equipment and manpower!" Romanov pounded his fist angrily upon the table, causing all the champagne glasses to quiver. The portly Premier paused for a moment to take breath, then, addressing Jozef, he continued.

"Through the years that have followed, I have danced with these capitalist swine. I have convinced them that the World Socialist Alliance wants nothing but peace and goodwill to all men; like Christmas story, _da_?" A brief smile appeared on his round face, but that quickly subsided. "But now it is time for Alexander Romanov to call the tune. The people of the Soviet Union demand justice, they demand retribution and glorious vengeance against the Allied oppressors who have defiled our beloved Mother Russia!"

"Pardon me, Comrade Premier," Secretary Bronislav spoke up. It was then that Jozef noticed that Bronislav had not been present at the table, but had disappeared without him noticing and only just now appeared standing at the Premier's right hand, where Yuri had been seated. He had in his hands a large parchment paper rolled up, so that no one could see the contents. Romanov nodded and then asked for those at the table to pick up their wine glasses. As they were removed, the parchment could now be placed upon the table, and Bronislav began to unfurl it.

"And as for the United States," Romanov continued. "Those cowards and traitors who have grown decadent in the years of peace, they shall feel the shame of foreign boots upon their home soil. They shall be humbled even as they humbled Mother Russia. The proud bastion of capitalism shall fall before the overwhelming march of the glorious proletariat!"

Before him Jozef saw the parchment was a map, written in Cyrilic Russian, that displayed the United States of America. It was then that it all fell into place for Jozef: why he had been dragged from Michalovce in the middle of the night and hauled off to a training camp in Moscow to be conscripted into the Red Army in the first place. It was all part of a precursor for this war with the west. He was going to be an officer in the Red Army, leading the charge against the western nations.

"Our glorious crusade shall be on four fronts," Romanov began, speaking to all of those at the table. "Here in the East, General-Lieutenant Krukov and our comrades in the Peoples Republic of China shall begin the invasion of Europe, where the nations of Greece, Germany, France and Great Britain will be punished for their invasion of Soviet Union twenty-six years ago."

"According to our intelligence network," Cherdenko stated. "Nikos Stavros, the former General of the Hellenic Army, has retired. KGB file on Stavros indicates that it was he who personally murdered Stalin after the siege of Moscow at the end of the Great War."

"It is a shame," Krukov proudly demurred. "It is said that he was a great general in his time. Perhaps he would have made a good challenge for my armies."

"Stavros must not be killed out-rightly, Comrade General," Romanov noted, turning to Krukov. "He must be brought back to Moscow to be publicly shamed before his execution, that the people may know that justice has been served." Romanov turned back to the map. "But Stavros is only part of your campaign, Krukov. The main objective will be the taking of Britain. Not only will you be bringing freedom to the farmers and factory workers of the nations of Europe, you will be succeeding where Stalin failed by stretching Russia's borders from the Pacific coast to the Atlantic coast."

"It will be a great honor!" Krukov grinned widely.

"For such an important task, I can only entrust its success to an experienced general such as yourself," Romanov continued. He then pointed on the map towards the United States. "However, of equal importance; _nyet_ , of utmost importance is the invasion of America! Even if we begin another war in Europe, the United States will surely come to the aid of the Allied dogs. For that, we will be committing the majority of the glorious Red Army to this task. General Vladimir and our Chinese allies will strike from the west, attacking military installations in the states of California and Alaska. From the south, the third front will be spear-headed by the Latin Confederation." While Romanov was talking, he took the champagne glasses from the table and, as if playing on a board game, placed the glasses at the states on the map marked as California, Alaska and Mexico.

"The Mexican border is weakly defended," Romanov continued. "The American President Dugan and his capitalist Congress have allowed the borders to remain open to all those traitors fleeing Confederation countries in Latin America! Our comrades in the Latin Confederation are eager to bring these traitors to justice and take back the southern states, which once belonged to Mexico, the largest country in the Confederation." Romanov then turned his eyes to Jozef on the other side of the table and gestured with his hand for his glass. Jozef leaned over and handed his glass to Romanov, who held it in his hand.

"Comrade _Starshina,_ " Romanov said. "We have invited you to sit at our table because we have heard that you are loyal to the cause and skilled in the art of warfare. As you see, we are all old men. Our fighting days will soon be over, and there must be new blood to take up the banner of the revolution and lead it throughout the world. Will you accept this task?"

Jozef looked down at the map. There was so much land in the United States which, according to the Premier's plan, would soon belong to the Soviet Union. A thought dawned upon him, one that had laid dormant since childhood. At that point, when he learned what it meant to be related to his father and the bad things people did to him because of it, he hated his father and being attached to him, even if only by name. That feeling only deepened with age, until it became something of a fantasy of his: to one day be free of the name of Fyodr Tankian and to be known only by his own merit. In this war he saw that opportunity.

"You asked me what I wanted, Comrade Premier," Jozef said: the shyness was still inside, but now it was buried under the burning flame of desire, the urge to seize upon the opportunity that fate had given him and make his dream a reality. "I want a new name. Give me a new name and I will do whatever it is you want me to do."

" _Otlichno,_ Comrade!" Premier Romanov congratulated. "Then, by the power vested in me by the people of Soviet Union, I hereby give you nominal title of General-Major, to be earned in full after the completion of your first task."

"Comrade Premier, I protest!" Krukov interjected. "To give this inexperienced little child such an important position! We don't even know if he is qualified for the task at hand!"

"Please, sir," Cherdenko interjected. "I am sure Premier knows what he is doing. After all, the young general may prove to be more than he appears: he may be up to the challenge. At the worst, if he is not, then the Americans will do the job of eliminating him for his incompetence for us."

Krukov scowled as he sat down, but did not give apologies to the Premier, nor did he acknowledge if Colonel Cherdenko had a point.

"Comrade _Starshina_...or should I say, Comrade General," Romanov said, holding his glass still in hand. "Let us all drink to your health. _Na zdorov'ya!_ "

" _Na zdorov'ya!_ " Romanov, Vladimir and Cherdenko said with one voice, raising their glasses. They raised their glasses to drink, but Romanov paused when he saw that Krukov hadn't spoken or risen his glass in toast.

"General?" he asked.

" _Pozhaluysta,_ sir," Cherdenko muttered.

General-Lieutenant Krukov eyed everyone at the table slowly, then picked up his glass and said to Jozef: "Your health", before draining the entire glass. He then placed his glass on the table and continued his sulking.

"While General Vladimir is tasked with destroying American military bases in the west," Romanov continued. "Your task will be one of symbolic importance. The forces under your command will land in New York City, at the very heart of capitalism itself. You are tasked with destroying their hypocritical monument, the Statue of Liberty, an offense to freedom-loving workers in America crying out under the yoke of capitalism! We will construct a new monument there to commemorate the triumph of the people. It is not a military target, _da_ , but its destruction will go long way in breaking the spirit of the American people, even as they broke the spirit of the Soviet people during the siege of Moscow."

"When will this be?" Jozef asked.

"New Year's Day, comrade," Romanov replied. "The first of January, 1982, shall be the dawning of a new age. We shall make history by expanding Stalin's goal of a socialist republic; not merely for all of Europe, but for the whole world! Now, let the festivities commence!"

* * *

 **(AN: I was truly saddened to hear of the passing of Nicholas Worth [the actor who played Romanov in _RA2_ and _Yuri's Revenge_ ]. He was one of the two best parts of the Soviet campaign cut-scenes [the other best part will appear in final chapter]. So, in memory of Comrade Premier and how he made me laugh, I couldn't help but write him exactly as he is in the game.)**

 **(In other news, here is my attempts at making sure that the character formerly known as Jozef Tankian [aka. "Comrade General"] isn't an OP god. His psychic abilities aren't fully unlocked, and he certainly won't become another Yuri: right now, all he has at his disposal is telekinesis. Most of Premier's cabinet were indifferent about him: Vladimir was too busy chasing tail [another thing i think is true to his portrayal in the game], Yuri had other things on his mind [lol, i'll see myself out now], and Cherdenko doesn't see him as a threat to his own ambitions. None of them "love" him, and Romanov's incentive to promote a young, inexperienced officer is two-fold: a] to buy his loyalty with favors and b] to have a younger face of "the people's army", since most of the senior commanding characters from _RA2_ and _RA3_ are 50+.)**

 **(Bronislav is the name of a commander from the mobile version of _RA3_ , but in this story i've given that name to Romanov's aide from _RA2_ [the one who poorly disguises himself as the Premier at the end of the Allied campaign]. They might even be the same person, since they are both clean-shaven and [possibly] blond. Boris is, of course, the Soviet hero from _Yuri's Revenge_ , but his characterization is based on Peter Stormare's character from _Armageddon_ [i know everyone hates Michael Bay movies, but Lev Andropov alone is worth sitting through that movie]. I will leave you to guess about the _RA3_ cameo 'hidden in plain sight.')**


	6. Chapter 6

**(AN: I wonder if anyone has guessed who was the hidden cameo in the last chapter, or who will appear in this chapter. I won't give it away.)**

 **(In case you were wondering, I had to make up the model number for the flak-track, or as the Russian variant in _Mental Omega_ is called, the "Tsivil." The closest half-track I found that matched the standard _RA2_ flak-track was the BA-30, which was apparently so heavy that it couldn't be used as a half-track and wasn't commissioned. Also, the "V3" has been replaced with the R-11 _Zemlya_ , commonly known by its NATO term "Scud". I based the Dreadnoughts off of the real-life _Kirov_ -class battle-cruiser, but changed the name to "Dreadnought-class" to avoid confusion with the Kirov airships, which I made six hundred feet long to justify having so many in the opening scene of _Red Alert 2._ I easily could have gone with eight hundred feet, the size of the _Hindenburg_ , which may or may not have existed in the _RA_ universe. I'm thinking not, since the _Hindenburg_ disaster spelled the doom of airships as public transportation since, according to Superman, "flying by plane _is_ the safest way to travel." Also, as another funny aside, i would like to point out that "peaked cap" is quite different than "wide-brimmed, tall peaked hat", which i've used in my _Wicked_ fics to describe a witch's hat. The peaked cap is one you often see modern military officers wear [just look at the US and Chinese generals from _Generals: Zero Hour_ ]. This is the military, man! Nobody's running around wearing witch hats!)  
**

 **(Anyway, on with the final chapter of the prologue!)**

* * *

True to what Boris had said, the party in Georgievsky Hall was indeed wild. Champagne and vodka flowed as freely as the waters of the Laborec. There was music and dancing, and women for the 'entertainment' of the esteemed guests: women of every shape, height, size and of every color of the rainbow, it seemed. Once General Vladimir had a bit of vodka in him, he was chasing tail more than a Siberian husky. Premier Romanov had one girl under each arm and seemed once again to be his merry self, laughing at his own jokes and full of good humor. Krukov and Cherdenko were both seated and sipping champagne: Krukov had a look of condescension on his face every time he turned towards the Premier, but Cherdenko would periodically smile and wink at a girl that passed by their table.

Jozef found that Boris and Zhana had disappeared, but quickly learned where to and why when a young blonde was leading him to a 'private' room: quite by accident, of course. They carried on after he left, apparently unashamed by his refusal of their offer to join them. Even the blonde asked if they could join them, but Jozef refused: at this she called him ' _pedik_ ' and joined them alone.

It was not true. Jozef certainly found women attractive, but even when he was thirteen, none of them even gave him a second glance: he was, after all, still the strange kid who had hurt someone before. Upon interrupting Boris and Zhana, Jozef's shyness came back front and center and killed for him any mood for sexual intercourse. Picking up his peaked cap, he made his way back into Georgievsky Hall to leave the Grand Palace and return to his bunk in the Arsenal. As he was leaving, he heard Romanov's deep, booming voice declare loudly:

"Ladies, say _zdravstvuyte_ to Uncle Sam!"

Jozef let out a chuckle. Though Jozef had no extended family, he had seen other families at the _odpadkydom_ and their loud, boisterous uncles who were always the life of every party or holiday festival. That was the impression that Alexander Romanov gave to Jozef Tankian, and he found himself endeared to the old man.

Once Jozef had left the Grand Palace, the bell in the Tower of Ivan the Great tolled eleven o'clock. Jozef was tired and ready for a good night's sleep. The food there had been rich and decadent: he didn't refuse a second or third helping of anything, which was not good for one who had spent most of his life malnourished. Then when the music came on, he danced along with the others in the Hall: even in impoverished Michalovce, there was someone who had smuggled in a musical instrument and a few brave souls who sang and danced on special occasions such as birthdays or holidays. Jozef enjoyed those times for the music mostly, but he could often be found outside of the circle of revelers, mimicking their moves by himself. Tonight, however, he danced until he got sick and made a quick departure to the nearest bathroom. But even that was not enough to stop him.

It was not until he had vomited at least once more, became tipsy on vodka and had interrupted Boris and Zhana that he decided enough was enough and stumbled back to the Arsenal. He changed out of his uniform, wondering if he would be fined or punished for getting _pierogi_ on it: the second time he didn't quite make it to the bathroom and the discharge on the floor splattered onto his boots, pants and jacket. With a weary groan, he lay himself onto his bed and tried to sleep. But the noise of the booming bass from the music still rang in his ears and he could not sleep. For an hour he lay there, until he heard Ivan the Great's bell toll for midnight.

About that time he heard a noise, but it wasn't of bell or music. It was Yuri's voice again.

 _You have failed me, comrade. Your training is not complete, yet you choose to go to America to fight in the war? You could have stood at my right hand as we conquered the world, bringing all people under the command of our minds. Instead, I must find another more willing and open mind who will listen and obey. Do not think, comrade, that this is the end. It has only begun._

* * *

 _The morning of December 9th, 1981_

At some point in the night, Jozef finally fell asleep in his bed. The words Yuri had spoken were more than alarming. So far Yuri had been both ally and torturer, and he dared to consider what he could be as an enemy. He wondered if he should tell Romanov about him, but then remembered what the Premier had said about Yuri. He was a trusted adviser, and he, Jozef, an inexperienced no one. Again his mind drifted to the obvious question: if Yuri was so powerful that he could project his thoughts into my mind without even being in the same room, why could he not simply force me to do as he wanted?

He quickly dismissed that thought from his head; but this time for two reasons. The first, and foremost when such thoughts came into his mind, was fear of discovery. If Yuri could put thoughts into his brain, surely he could read his mind, or even control his mind as with the prisoner from the gulag. At the back of his mind was still the fear that Yuri could read minds and knew what he, Jozef, was thinking while he was thinking it.

The second reason was the knock at the door.

It almost made him jump out of his bed. His first fear was that it was Yuri. Then it dawned on him that Yuri would not bother with knocking. Already sitting up in his bed from being awoken by the knock, he flattened his hair with his bare hands and threw a plain brown shirt over himself: the uniform was hanging from a wire hanger, brushed clean before he went to bed but still with the stains from last night. Without putting the uniform on, he made sure his pants were on and buttoned, then opened the door: it was certainly not Yuri.

Outside of his door stood a woman in a dark brown uniform with slicked back brunette hair. For a moment, Jozef forgot all thoughts of Yuri, of 'our glorious crusade', or the fact that his mouth was hanging open: the woman's hazel eyes almost made him forget to breathe.

"Comrade General, _dobroye utro_ ," the woman greeted. "My name is Zofia Kulika. I'm a lieutenant with Soviet Intelligence, and have been assigned to be your adjutant. It will be my job to see that your command runs smoothly." A moment of awkward silence followed, during which Zofia cleared her throat.

"I have here your papers, as requested," she said, holding out a folder that had been in her hand. "Premier Romanov asked me to deliver them to you personally, along with an invitation to the Revolutionary Parade on New Year's Eve." Jozef cleared his throat, took the folder and opened it to see what had been written about him. He still remembered what he had asked of the Premier last night.

"'Mikhail Lazarev?'" he asked. "This is my new name?"

" _Da,_ Comrade General," Zofia replied.

"Not bad," he mused. "But what about this Revolutionary Parade?"

"In preparation for the invasion of the United States," Zofia answered. "The Premier has ordered a parade in Red Square to display the armed might of the Red Army to the people before departing overseas."

" _Spasibo,_ Comrade Lieutenant," he nodded.

"There is something else, sir," Zofia added. "As your adjutant, I have been tasked with briefing you on the Red Army's arsenal. If you will follow me..."

"I need to get dressed," he replied.

"Oh, of course," Zofia said, her red lips twisting into a sly grin as she examined his unkempt form. "Can't be giving commands out of uniform, _da_?"

He told the lieutenant that he would only be a minute, then closed the door as he got himself together. He felt ashamed that his first serious assignment would be in a soiled uniform, especially in front of this lieutenant in particular. Premier had mentioned it briefly, but during the party - and before the vomiting took place - he told him again that, for his commission, he would be given an adjutant. His first thoughts were towards Anatoly Cherdenko and would have been expecting someone like him: another old man like so many of the Premier's cabinet. Yet here was someone much younger, fitter and better looking by far.

He placed the papers on the bed as he dressed himself. There it was, just like that: a new identity, one that would be the name in which he would conquer the States for the Premier. The name of Tankian would no longer be his; it would no longer be remembered. After licking his finger and rubbing away the stains as best he could, he placed his peaked cap beneath his arm and combed his hair as best he could. Once it was more or less neat, the P-FAAC came on and he placed the hat over it: part of him wondered if he should shave his head, then he could sleep with the P-FAAC on and maybe things like last night wouldn't happen.

* * *

Two weeks had passed in the Kremlin, and throughout all of them, the man known as General-Major Mikhail Lazarev was busier than he had been during his officer training. His adjutant briefed him on everything he needed to know about the invasion of New York. Primarily this involved some level of military clearance on the weapons and vehicles that would be deployed in the Eastern American Front: the T-72 " _Nosorog_ " tank, the main battle tank of the Red Army, the BA-63 _Tsivil_ , an armored half-track whose twin DShK barrels could shred apart infantry or clear the skies of any aircraft, and the Borillo, an armored amphibious personnel carrier equipped with a powerful POKC-3 napalm cannon.

But their briefing also consisted of reconnaissance planning for the strike zones. KGB operatives had been sent ahead of the invasion force into the States with messages for many of the spies that had remained inactive since the Great War. Now they sent back to Moscow by way of the Soviet Embassy in Canada photographs of the prime targets for the invasion. Lieutenant Kulika had Mikhail study them extensively, as well as bathymetric maps of the Hudson River, New York City harbor as well as the Chesapeake Bay and the Potomac River.

New orders arrived mid-way through the extensive planning process. In addition to New York, Mikhail was now being given orders to send one division of the Eastern American Front to the American Capital of Washington DC for a swift strike at the headquarters of the US Department of Defense, commonly known as the Pentagon.

On the twenty-third of December, as General-Major Lazarev and Lieutenant Kulika were discussing battle tactics, there was a knock at the door. The lieutenant opened the door and, to their surprise, they saw Secretary Bronislav with a written message in his hands, which he delivered to the lieutenant before leaving.

"What is it?" Mikhail asked.

"It appears that the Revolutionary Parade has been moved up to the thirtieth of this month," Zofia replied. "The tests of our airships have proven that they will not arrive in the States at the same time as the Soviet Navy. They are vital to our success in this campaign, and so the Parade was moved forward."

"What does this mean for us?" asked Mikhail.

"That we will have to move quicker before we can be ready for our campaign," Zofia answered. "We will have to work faster over the next week to be on schedule for the invasion date of New Year's Day."

The week that followed was one busier than the previous two had been. For longer hours the two of them studied the maps and strategy tactics of the Red Army, preparing for the great day. Every night Mikhail had the same dream of the woman with hazel eyes inside the sterile, pale-blue-tiled complex: at sometimes, the face on the woman in the lab would become Lieutenant Kulika's face. It was more than awkward, since the only person he saw these days was Lieutenant Kulika, and he could not share this with her. After all, she was his adjutant and the thought of a relationship, or even just a casual sexual escapade, hadn't occurred to him yet. The Premier's party had placed his mind on other things.

Still, her presence was welcome. It was certainly better than being alone, and she seemed to be quite knowledgeable about military tactics. She would be invaluable in the campaign.

* * *

 _December 30th, 1981_

Mikhail Lazarev awoke at 5 o'clock in the morning. As he dressed himself, a sense of anticipation filled his body that could not be quenched, even by his P-FAAC. Over the past three weeks, Lieutenant Kulika and he went over what would happen in the next few days. The Revolutionary Parade was to last all day, as there would be a simultaneous departure televised in Red Square of General Vladimir's divisions from Vladivostok in the far east, General Krukov's ground forces from Ukraine, and the Soviet Fleet from Leningrad, that would reconnect with the Air-Force somewhere in the North Sea before making the final departure towards the Atlantic Ocean, then onward to America.

As for Mikhail, as soon as the parade died down, he would be whisked away via a Mil-24 "Wolfhound" helicopter to transport him aboard the SSV-33 _Ural_ , a command ship based on the _Dreadnought_ -class battleship. As he was not yet a full General-Major, he would be sent onto the battlefield in New York City during the invasion and take command of the troops personally.

Though it wouldn't be the first time in Mikhail's life that he had been outside of his home country, it would be his first time in the fabled United States of America. It was also the first time that he was doing something of such importance.

At 5:20, he was now dressed in his uniform: it was of the same design as the one he wore at the Premier's party, only now it had the General-Major's insignia on the arm of his uniform shirt and jacket. He was issued a Tokarev pistol as his side-arm, and told to use it on cowards as well as the enemy, or an NKVD agent might do the same to him as well. Perhaps this was another reason for his concern, that he would be facing threat of what amounted to a personal firing squad following him even to America.

After he was dressed and his Tokarev safely in its holster, he left his room and walked out to the courtyard of the Arsenal. It was lit up for the beginning of the parade, and all those who were going out for the invasion were being marched about the square. He could hear the commissars and captains shouting orders to their companies, echoing in the cold, early morning air. Lieutenant Kulika had told him that she would meet him here before the parade, yet she was not present: this made him even more nervous. Without her, he knew that he could not properly command the Red Army to anything, much less victory against the United States. He longed to have something to ease his nerves, which even the P-FAAC couldn't calm: however, cigarettes cost almost three weeks worth of ration cards in the Kremlin 'black market', as Boris had told them that night as they made their way through the Grand Palace to Georgievsky Hall.

Fifteen minutes passed before he saw Lieutenant Kulik briskly walking across the courtyard to meet him. Like him, she also wore a peaked cap and a large jacket down to her boots: her cap was also brown like his, but her jacket was black and had a thick fur collar, whereas his was brown, thick for warmth but without such a collar.

"Comrade General!" she greeted, as she approached him. "Forgive me for being late. I was bidding farewell to my family."

"Lieutenant," Mikhail smiled. "All is well."

"Come, the parade will start in thirty-five minutes," she stated. "Wouldn't want to be late, would we?"

"Indeed not," Mikhail returned.

"The car is outside the Arsenal," Zofia replied. "Let us walk there, Comrade."

" _Zachem_?" Mikhail asked.

"I will be leaving with you on the Ural," Zofia stated. "This will be my first time outside of Moscow since my arrival, and I want to enjoy the sights."

"You're coming with the army?" Mikhail asked.

" _Da_ , Comrade General."

"But you're an intelligence officer," Mikhail stated.

"I'm your intelligence officer," Zofia replied. "And I will be coordinating with you throughout your campaign. I will remain on the Ural while you go ashore: if all goes well, once our forward command post is established in the States, I'll have operations moved there." They started walking towards the entrance of the Arsenal.

"I'm pleased to hear this, Lieutenant," Mikhail said; it was true, but relieved would have been the better word.

"I would hope so," Zofia commented. "I received top marks at training academy and have assisted in over fifty successful campaign simulations since then. I feel you will be more than satisfied with my services."

"As you say, comrade," Mikhail grinned. For some reason, it felt better to have her at his side, going forward with this great task.

"What about you, Comrade General?" she asked. "Do you have any family?"

" _Nyet_ ," Mikhail shook his head.

" _Izvineniya_ ," she apologized.

"It's nothing," Mikhail returned. "They died during the Great War, and I never knew them."

"I know how you feel, comrade," Zofia added. "My father also died in the Great War, before I knew him."

"What did your father do in the War?" Mikhail asked.

"He was a factory-worker in Bialystok, where my family formerly lived," Zofia continued. "When the tide turned, the factory was bombed by the Allies: my father was inside when the bombing took place."

" _Izvineniya_ ," Mikhail apologized. At least her father was doing something noble, he thought.

"I volunteered for the officer training program several years back," she added. "In order to do my part for my country, just as he did. My skills were recognized and I was brought to Moscow, where I served in the NKVD. While there, I learned of Comrade Premier's plan to invade the United States, and volunteered for Soviet Intelligence program. I used my connections in the KGB to secure my family's relocation to Moscow, as I knew that Poland wouldn't be safe once war broke out again."

"You're from Poland?" Mikhail asked.

"And you're Czechoslovakian," she replied with a grin. "It doesn't matter in the people's revolution."

" _Da_ , of course," Mikhail returned the smile. They walked on in silence, now almost half-way to the entrance, where the car was waiting for them. "If you please, tell me about your family. Do you have a large family?"

"It's just five people," she returned. "My mother, my uncle Vanya, myself and my two brothers, Alexey and Vladimir. I'm the middle child."

"Tell me more about them," Mikhail insisted. "I mean, if you please, lieutenant. I've never had a family before, I want to know what yours is like."

Zofia grinned. "You're my superior officer, Comrade General. It wouldn't be appropriate to ask such questions. You could simply place an inquiry at NKVD." As they reached the car, she paused and turned about. "Of course, it wouldn't be inappropriate of you to simply order me to tell you, either."

"Later, if necessary," Mikhail returned. He then walked over to the right-side of the car and opened the door, which she thanked him for as she took the driver's seat. Mikhail had never driven a vehicle in his life, as he was too poor to own a car back in Michalovce and his private officer's training in the Arsenal didn't include driving lessons. He took the left-hand seat as Lieutenant Kulika started the engine: it tried to turn over, then gave out and died.

" _Rugat'sja!_ " she swore. She pounded her fist on the dashboard, then tried again: this time, the engine turned over and the car started.

They pulled out from the Arsenal in relative silence, then turned towards the Troitskaya Tower, where the night-shift of the Black Guard called for a halt. Zofia, thankfully, had their papers ready and presented them to allow them to leave the red-brick walls of the Kremlin. It would be a long time before either of them returned here. As they were making their way across the bridge to the Kutafya Tower, Zofia broke the silence.

"My uncle served in the Red Army during the Great War," Zofia began. "Before that, he also worked in factory in Bialystok. He was wounded in action during the invasion of Germany and discharged from duty: that was around the time my younger brother Vladimir was born. Both my mother and uncle are old and have worked all their lives for us; I would rather that they relax and enjoy their golden years, but they insist on working. My younger brother works in auto-machine shop here in Moscow, and my older brother Alexey works in oil refinery in the Crimea; his wife and children live with us, and Vladimir and I are rarely at home ourselves, so it's still five people in a way."

"I see," Mikhail nodded.

"And what about you, sir?" she returned. "Even with all the advances in modern science, nobody can be born without parents of some kind. Are you telling me you don't remember any at all?"

"None," he replied.

"No brothers or sisters?" she asked.

"None," he repeated.

"No grandparents or uncles?"

"Listen, lieutenant," Mikhail sighed, suddenly regretting that he had asked her about her family. "You had my papers, you knew everything there was to know about me. If I had any relatives, you would have known about them. But that doesn't matter anymore: my old life is gone."

"Of course, sir," she replied.

They drove on in silence for a while. Mikhail was not angry with the lieutenant, only a little embarrassed that he could not provide any answers: no one in Michalovce ever claimed him as family. His silence came from another thing: he was suddenly aware that his old life, whatever it had meant, was gone. This life, now, was General-Major in the Red Army, was the life that he chose as his own. There was nothing to look back for, even if he was of the mind to look back on his old life.

From six o'clock that morning to five o'clock in the evening, the Revolutionary Parade took place throughout Red Square. As he was a Senior Officer in the Red Army, Mikhail was allowed to stand on the platform built before Lenin's Mausoleum, where the other members of the Military and the Politburo stood, waving and applauding as the military might of the Soviet Union was on parade before them. Premier Romanov was also there, beaming with great pride at the center of the platform: he wore a white military uniform with a brown coat over it, and a white peaked cap that made him look tall and imposing. Surely he must have cut an impressive figure in his younger days, during the Great War.

During the early hours of the morning, there was mostly music played by marching bands and free food given out to all those who came early to the parade. Once the day dawned, the lines of troops started marching through the Square: massive square formations of thousands of conscripts in heavy brown coats, armed with PPSh-41s on their shoulders. In between each division drove officers and commissars in their command cars, waving and saluting as they passed by. As the hours marched on, the parade continued, with more and more lines of soldiers continuing their march, line after line. Mikhail knew that they were on their way to the air-field outside of Moscow, where fleets of _Antonov_ -12 jet-planes would fly them over Finland, Sweden and Norway, to meet the fleet from Leningrad out on the North Sea before making the final journey towards America.

Around midday, a loud horn was sounded and suddenly the Soviet National anthem blared over the loudspeakers set up across Red Square. There was a great rumbling sound, like the rush of a thousand winds, and suddenly cries of excitement rose from the crowd. Even Lieutenant Kulika, who had remained silent throughout the morning, except to stand, salute and remind her superior officer to do likewise, couldn't resist lifting up her voice in cheer. Mikhail looked up and was amazed at what he saw: he had been cleared on the new class of airship, but hadn't the opportunity to see one in action. Now at last he saw dozens of them lifting up into the skies above Moscow: the _Kirov_ -class rigid airship of the Soviet Air Forces. Six hundred feet long they were, from the nose of the envelope to the directional fins at the rear; at the nose was painted a shark's mouth full of teeth and angry eyes glaring ahead. Beneath its massive body keen-eyed observers could see the crew waving from the front of the long gondolas hanging beneath the zeppelin: the rear portions were filled with their weighty payload of high-explosive bombs.

" _Velikolepnyy!_ " Mikhail muttered in awe at the airborne behemoths.

With that, the streets of Red Square were filled with the tanks of the Red Army: T-72 _Nosorog_ battle tanks, BA-63 _Tsivil_ half-tracks, MAZ-542s armed with R-11 _Zemlya_ ballistic missiles. Even present were a select number of a certain tank that Mikhail had never seen before: a massive behemoth with two 125mm cannons and surface-to-air missile packs on the back of its massive turret. He wondered if these new, super-tanks were going to the United States, and if more than one could fit on-board the _Ilyushin_ -76s, the heavy transport jets.

Behind the Premier's platform, large flat screens - such as were used in large concerts for those in the back to see the performers onstage - displayed similar patriotic parades in Vladivostok, Leningrad, and Kiev, the capital of Ukraine, where Krukov's forces would disembark for the European theater. Fleets of Kirov airships filled the skies, and in the waters of Leningrad and Vladivostok, _Dreadnought_ -class battle-cruisers armed with R-11 missiles set out to sea, their crew waving the red flag with pride from their decks. Around the battle-cruisers came Borillos and the larger _Zubr_ -class hovercraft transports, their rubber skirts inflated as they floated over the rocking waves. Mikhail had never seen the sea before, but neither had he seen the Kirov airships that were now filling the skies of Mother Russia.

For hours, seemingly without end, wave after wave of soldiers, vehicles, airships and sea-faring vessels poured through Red Square and on the television screens. The Red Army seemed to be an unending tide, an invincible horde that would sweep away the capitalist nations of the West. So it seemed to Mikhail, as his eyes swelled with awe as the tanks rumbled past by the hundreds, and the soldiers marched through by the thousands. The thing which he had seen before as a plan on the map at the Premier's table was now about to become reality. All of this was to be behind him and at his command as he went forth to war.

 _Yes,_ he thought to himself. This _is the reality that I have chosen to be my own._

As if the wonders didn't stop there, suddenly there came marching into Red Square a new battalion of soldiers. Like armored knights out of the Middle Ages they appeared, clad in surcoats and domed helmets of plated steel. Instead of lances, they bore in their right hands stout cannons which they held at chest height with the assistance of their other hand. As Mikhail got a closer look, he saw that their whole right arms were in fact a cannon itself. With them also came large, treaded vehicles with a huge apparatus upon each of them instead of a gun-turret: two poles pointed out from the apparatus like cannons, but they had steel coils around them and the mouth of the 'cannons' had each a silvery ball upon the end.

"Lieutenant!" Mikhail shouted over the din of the crowd. "What vehicle is that? I don't recall you briefing me on them."

"As I did not, Comrade General," Zofia replied. "The designs were only recently completed, and they have been approved for field testing in America. That is a Tesla Cruiser, a vehicle with the body of a tank and two Tesla coils for cannons. They are said to generate powerful electric charges that can kill enemy infantry on contact and short-circuit the guidance systems on enemy vehicles as well."

"And those armored men?" Mikhail added.

"Tesla troopers," Zofia added. "Their insulated suits provide excellent shock resistance, as well as moderate protection from stray bullets and attacks from trained guard dogs."

"Wait, Tesla troopers?" Mikhail asked. "Are you saying that cannon on their arms is like the Tesla Cruiser?"

"Very similar, _da_ ," Zofia replied. "The arm-mounted cannon also has power cells for extended field use."

"I look forward to seeing them in action," Mikhail commented.

As the afternoon wore on and the day darkened with the overcast sky, more troops and vehicles were paraded through Red Square, along with men bearing banners, marching bands and so forth. Mikhail cared not for anything that had happened before, for all memory of any hardships seemed to vanish: he did not even care that Yuri, the Premier's adviser, hadn't been present at the parade. The grand army before him made him certain of victory in the coming campaign.

As the hour of five o'clock approached, the light began to fade and Red Square was flooded with electric lights and street lamps: the festive air of the parade seemed more than able to go on forever. Then, at a silent queue from KGB operatives in the new state television network center in Moscow, the large television screens all showed Premier Romanov on his platform as he made a speech before all the people in Red Square and, as was surely the case, to those in the northwest, southwest and far east.

"Comrades," he began. "Soldiers, peace-loving farmers and factory-workers of the World Socialist Alliance and the Union of Soviet Socialists Republic, today begins the dawning of a new era. Today the dreams of the oppressed, freedom-loving proletariat the world over shall come true, as they rise from their factories and their fields to take part in the glorious World Revolution! Together, in concert with our comrades in arms in Vladivostok, Leningrad and Kiev, and our brave compatriots in the Latin Confederation and the Peoples Republic of China, we shall usher in a brave new world; one where the great struggle that began in the year 1917 shall at last be won! Today we march forward in righteous retribution: for the glory of Mother Russia and the spirit of justice, the United States of America and the Allies nations of Europe must pay! The proud capitalist dogs of the West must be brought low, so that at last all men may truly be equal, as brothers and comrades in the brave new Soviet world!"

A great cheer rose up from the crowd, and Romanov held out his hands as if to embrace the people of Moscow in his arms. Overhead there came a rush of helicopter blades as Mi-24 Wolfhounds landed in areas that had been designated as landing zones for the officers to be carried away to the front of their respective invasion forces.

"That's our cue, sir!" Zofia shouted to Mikhail. She led the way down off the platform and he followed her down and across the square towards the Wolfhounds until the coat-tails of his jacket were being caught up by the wind of the whirling blades. Here Zofia halted and turned about, one hand on her peaked cap: as he knew beforehand, they would be leaving Moscow in separate helicopters, as she was part of the intelligence corps and had to leave first.

"I'll meet you on the Ural, Comrade General!" she shouted. "Then, on to New York."

"Until then, Lieutenant," Mikhail bade. " _Udachi!_ "

" _Do svidaniya,_ Comrade General!" Zofia replied with a grin. She then turned about and climbed aboard the Wolfhound.

Mikhail, meanwhile, turned back to gaze at St. Basil's Cathedral and its colorful onion domes, the National anthem rising in its glorious climax. A grin fell upon his face as he made this next great leap forward. The life that he once led before had been a waste; now he was going forward to do something that truly meant something to him. With a tip of his hat, as if to say farewell to Mother Russia, he turned and climbed into the helicopter.

1703 Moscow time, the 30th of December, 1981. Jozef Tankian was dead. The man who bore that name was no more. All trace of him disappeared when he was herded by the KGB onto a train from Michalovce to Moscow. The young Czech man, now bearing the name of an Imperial Russian fleet commander and explorer, would make a new name for himself as Mikhail Lazarev, General-Major of the Red Army.

* * *

 **(AN: And there we go! I've started off with a nice little prologue to get my toes wet with writing again. Hopefully it was to your liking and good enough to spark interest in a full _Red Alert 2/Mental Omega_ story.)**

 **(By the time I had already written names for the main character and a surname for Zofia [the best thing about the Soviet campaigns in both _RA2_ and _YR_ , in my opinion], I realized that their names were actually used by real people. Mikhail's obviously is the one I mentioned in the story, but there actually was a Zofia Kulik who was a Polish artist. I placed an 'a' on the end [because that's the custom for Slavic female's surnames, though I think I messed up there], and kept the last name and Polish descent, since Aleksandra Kaniak, the actress who played Zofia in _Red Alert 2_ and _Yuri's Revenge_ , is in fact Polish. I expanded on her backstory a bit with her family: her older brother's name, obviously, is an homage to the actress' real name. As always, any reference to real people who are not exclusively featured in the _RA2/YR_ games is purely unintentional.)**


End file.
